The 
Old  House 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 

A  Novel 


By 

CECILE  TORMAY 

TEA  X SLATED    FROM    THE    HUXGAKIAX    BY 

E.    T  0  R  D  A  Y 


ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  COMPANY 
1922  :  :  :  :  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,       1922,      by 
ROBERT    M.    McBRiDE    6-    Co. 


Printed       in       the 
United     States     of     America 


Published,      September,       1922 


CHAPTER  I 


IT  was  evening.     Winter  hung  white  over  the 
earth.    Great  snowflakes  crept  over  the  snow 
towards  the  coach.     They  moved  ghostlike 
over  the  silent,  treeless  plain.     Mountains 
rose  behind  them  in  the  snow.     Small  church 
towers  and  roofs  crowded  over  each  other.     Here 
and  there  little  squares  flared  up  in  the  darkness. 
Night  fell  as  the  coach  reached  the  excise  bar- 
rier.    Beyond,  two  sentiy  boxes  buried  in  the 
snow  faced  each  other.     The  coachman  shouted 
between  his  hands.     A  drowsy  voice  answered 
and  white  cockades  began  to  move  in  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  the  boxes.     The  light  of  a  lamp  emerged 
from  the  guard's  cottage.     Behind  the  gleam  a 
man  with  a  rifle  over  his  arm  strolled  towards  the 
vehicle. 

The  high-wheeled  travelling  coach  was  painted 
in  two  colours:  the  upper  part  dark  green,  the 
lower,  including  the  wheels,  bright  yellow.  From 
near  the  driver's  seat  small  oil  lamps  shed  their 
light  over  the  horses'  backs.  The  animals  steamed 
in  the  cold. 

The  guard  lifted  his  lantern.     At  the  touch  of 
i 

2037301 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


the  crude  light,  the  coach  window  rattled  and  de- 
scended. In  its  empty  frame  appeared  a  power- 
ful grey  head.  Two  steady  cold  eyes  looked 
into  the  guard's  face.  The  man  stepped  back. 
He  bowed  respectfully. 

"The  Ulwing  coach!"  He  drew  the  barrier 
aside.  The  civil  guards  in  the  sentry  boxes  pre- 
sented arms. 

"You  may  pass!" 

The  light  of  the  coach's  lamps  wandered  over 
crooked  palings,  over  waste  ground — a  large  de- 
serted market — the  wall  of  a  church.  Along  the 
winding  lanes  lightless  houses,  squatting  above 
the  ditches,  sulked  with  closed  eyes  in  the  dark. 
Further  on  the  houses  became  higher.  Not  a 
living  thing  was  to  be  seen  until  near  the  palace 
of  Prince  Grassalkovich  a  night-watchman 
waded  through  the  snow.  From  the  end  of  a 
stick  he  held  in  his  hand  dangled  a  lantern.  The 
shadow  of  his  halberd  moved  on  the  wall  like 
some  black  beast  rearing  over  his  head. 

From  the  tower  of  the  town  hall  a  hoarse  voice 
shouted  into  the  quiet  night:  "Praised  be  the 
Lord  Jesus!"  and  higher  up  the  watchman  an- 
nounced that  he  was  awake. 

Then  the  township  relapsed  into  silence.  Snow 
fell  leisurely  between  old  gabled  roofs.  Under 
jutting  eaves  streets  crept  forth  from  all  sides, 
crooked,  suspicious,  like  conspirators.  Where 
they  met  they  formed  a  ramshackle  square.  In 
the  middle  of  the  square  the  Servites'  Fountain 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


played  in  front  of  the  church ;  water  murmured 
frigidly  from  its  spout  like  a  voice  from  the  dark 
that  prayed  slowly,  haltingly. 

A  solitary  lamp  at  a  corner  house  thrust  out 
from  an  iron  bracket  into  the  street.  Whenever 
it  rocked  at  the  wind's  pleasure,  the  chain  creaked 
gently  and  the  beam  of  its  light  shrunk  on  the 
wall  till  it  was  no  bigger  than  a  child's  fist.  An- 
other lone  lamp  in  the  middle  of  New  Market 
Place.  Its  smoky  light  was  absorbed  by  the  fall- 
ing snow  and  never  reached  the  ground. 

Christopher  Ulwing  drew  his  head  into  his  fur- 
collared  coat.  The  almanac  proclaimed  full 
moon  for  to-night.  Whenever  this  happened, 
the  civic  authorities  saved  lamp-oil;  could  they 
accept  responsibility  if  the  heavens  failed  to 
comply  with  the  calendar  and  left  the  town  in 
darkness  ?  In  any  case,  at  this  time  of  night  the 
only  place  for  peaceful  citizens  was  by  their  own 
fireside. 

Two  lamps  alight.  .  .  .  And  even  these  were 
superfluous. 

Pest,  the  old-fashioned  little  town  had  gone 
to  rest  and  the  fancy  came  to  Christopher  Ulwing 
that  it  was  asleep  even  in  day  time,  and  that  he 
was  the  only  person  in  it  who  was  ever  quite 
awake. 

He  raised  his  head;  the  Leopold  suburb  had 
been  reached.  The  carriage  had  come  to  the 
end  of  the  rough,  jerky  cobbles.  Under  the 
wheels  the  ruts  became  soft  and  deep.  The 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


breeze  blowing  from  the  direction  of  the  Danube 
ruffled  the  horses'  manes  gently. 

All  of  a  sudden,  a  clear,  pleasant  murmur 
broke  the  silence.  The  great  life-giving  river 
pursued  its  mysterious  course  through  the  dark- 
ness, invisible  even  as  life  itself. 

Beyond  it  were  massed  the  white  hills  of  Buda. 
On  the  Pest  side  an  uninterrupted  plain  stretched 
between  the  town  and  the  river.  In  the  white 
waste  the  house  of  Christopher  Ulwing  stood 
alone.  For  well  nigh  thirty  years  it  had  been 
called  in  town  "the  new  house."  The  building 
of  it  had  been  a  great  event.  The  citizens  of  the 
Inner  Town  used  to  make  excursions  on  Sun- 
days to  see  it.  They  looked  at  it,  discussed  it, 
and  shook  their  heads.  They  could  not  grasp 
why  Ulwing  the  builder  should  put  his  house 
there  in  the  sand  when  plenty  of  building  ground 
could  be  got  cheaply,  in  the  lovely  narrow  streets 
of  the  Inner  Town.  But  he  would  have  his  own 
way  and  loved  his  house  all  the  more.  The  child 
of  his  mind,  the  product  of  his  work,  his  bricks, 
it  was  entirely  his  own.  Though  once  upon  a 
time  .  .  . 

While  Christopher  Ulwing  listened  uncon- 
sciously to  the  murmur  of  the  Danube,  silent 
shades  rose  from  afar  and  spoke  to  his  soul.  He 
thought  of  the  ancient  Ulwings  who  had  lived  in 
the  great  dark  German  forest.  They  were  wood- 
cutters on  the  shores  of  the  Danube  and  they  fol- 
lowed their  calling  downstream.  Some  acquired 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


citizenship  in  a  small  German  town.  They  be- 
came master  carpenters  and  smiths.  They 
worked  oak  and  iron,  simple,  rude  materials, 
and  were  moulded  in  the  image  of  the  stuff  they 
worked  in.  Honest,  strong  men.  Then  one  hap- 
pened to  wander  into  Hungary ;  he  settled  down 
in  Pozsony  and  became  apprenticed  to  a  gold- 
smith. He  wrought  in  gold  and  ivory.  His 
hand  became  lighter,  his  eye  more  sensitive  than 
his  ancestors'.  He  was  an  artist.  .  .  .  Christo- 
pher Ulwing  thought  of  him — his  father.  There 
were  two  boys,  he  and  his  brother  Sebastian,  and 
when  the  parental  house  became  empty,  they  too 
like  those  before  them,  heard  the  call.  They  left 
Pozsony  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube.  They  fol- 
lowed the  river,  orphans,  poor. 

Many  a  year  had  passed  since.  Many  a  thing 
had  changed. 

Christopher  Ulwing  drew  out  his  snuff  box. 
It  was  his  father's  work  and  his  only  inheritance. 
He  tapped  it  lightly  with  two  fingers.  As  it 
sank  back  into  his  pocket,  he  bent  towards  the 
window. 

His  house  now  became  distinctly  visible;  the 
steep  double  roof,  the  compact  storied  front,  the 
mullioned  windows  in  the  yellow  wall,  the  door 
of  solid  oak  with  its  semi-circular  top  like  a  pair 
of  frowning  eyebrows.  Two  urns  stood  above 
the  ends  of  the  cornice  and  two  caryatid  pillars 
flanked  the  door.  Every  recess,  every  protrud- 
ing wall  of  the  house  appeared  soft  and  white. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


Indoors  the  coach  had  been  noticed.  The  win- 
dows of  the  upper  story  became  first  light  and 
then  dark  again  in  quick  succession.  Someone 
was  running  along  the  rooms  with  a  candle.  The 
big  oak  gate  opened.  The  wheels  clattered,  the 
travelling  box  was  jerked  against  the  back  of 
the  coach  and  all  of  a  sudden  the  caryatids — hu- 
man pillars — looked  into  the  coach  window.  The 
noise  of  the  hoofs  and  the  wheels  echoed  like 
thunder  under  the  archway  of  the  porch. 

The  manservant  lowered  the  steps  of  the  coach. 

A  young  man  stood  on  the  landing  of  the  stair- 
case. He  held  a  candle  high  above  his  head. 
The  light  streamed  over  his  thick  fair  hair.  His 
face  was  in  the  shade. 

"Good  evening,  John  Hubert!"  shouted  Ul- 
wing  to  his  son.  His  voice  sounded  deep  and 
sharp,  like  a  hammer  dropping  on  steel.  "How 
are  the  children?"  He  turned  quickly  round. 
This  sudden  movement  flung  the  many  capes  of 
his  coat  over  his  shoulders. 

The  servant's  good-natured  face  emerged  from 
the  darkness. 

"The  book-keeper  has  been  waiting  for  a  long 
time  .  .  ." 

"Is  everybody  asleep  in  this  town?" 

"Of  course  I  am  not  asleep,  of  course  I  am 
not "  and  there  was  Augustus  Fiiger  rush- 
ing down  the  stairs.  He  was  always  in  a  hurry, 
his  breath  came  short,  he  held  his  small  bald  head 
on  one  side  as  if  he  were  listening. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


Christopher  Ulwing  slapped  him  on  the 
back. 

"Sorry,  Fiiger.  My  day  lasts  as  long  as  my 
work." 

John  Hubert  came  to  meet  his  father.  His 
coat  was  bottle  green.  His  waistcoat  and  nan- 
kin trousers  were  buff.  On  his  exaggeratedly 
high  collar  the  necktie,  twisted  twice  round,  dis- 
played itself  in  elegant  folds.  He  bowed  respect- 
fully and  kissed  his  father's  hand.  He  resem- 
bled him,  but  he  was  shorter,  his  eyes  were  paler 
and  his  face  softer. 

A  petticoat  rustled  on  the  square  slabs  of  the 
dark  corridor  behind  them. 

Christopher  Ulwing  did  not  even  turn  round. 
"Good  evening,  Mamsell.  I  am  not  hungry." 
Throwing  his  overcoat  on  a  chair,  he  went  into 
his  room. 

Mamsell  Tini's  long,  stiff  face,  flanked  by  two 
hair  cushions  covering  her  ears,  looked  disap- 
pointedly after  the  builder ;  she  had  kept  his  sup- 
per in  vain.  She  threw  her  key-basket  from  one 
arm  to  the  other  and  sailed  angrily  back  into 
the  darkness  of  the  corridor. 

The  room  of  Christopher  Ulwing  was  low  and 
vaulted.  White  muslin  curtains  hung  at  its  two 
bay  windows.  On  the  round  table,  a  candle 
was  burning;  it  was  made  of  tallow  but  stood 
in  a  silver  candle-stick.  Its  light  flickered  slowly 
over  the  checked  linen  covers  of  the  spacious 
armchairs. 


8  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"Sit  down,  Fiiger.  You,  too,"  said  Ulwing  to 
his  son,  but  remained  standing  himself. 

"The  Palatine  has  entrusted  me  with  the  re- 
pair of  the  castle.  I  concluded  the  bargain 
about  the  forest."  He  took  a  letter  up  from  the 
table.  Whatever  he  wanted  his  hand  seized,  his 
fist  grabbed,  without  hesitation.  Meanwhile  he 
dictated  short,  precise  instructions  to  the  book- 
keeper. 

Fiiger  wrote  hurriedly  in  his  yellow-covered 
note  book.  He  always  carried  it  about  him ;  even 
when  he  went  to  Mass  it  peeped  out  of  his  pocket. 

John  Hubert  sat  uncomfortably  in  the  bulg- 
ing armchair.  Above  the  sofa  hung  the  portraits 
of  the  architects  Fischer  von  Erlach  and  Man- 
sard, fine  old  small  engravings.  He  knew  those 
two  faces,  but  took  no  interest  in  them.  He  be- 
gan to  look  at  the  green  wall  paper.  Small 
squares,  green  wreaths.  He  looked  at  each  of 
them  separately.  Meanwhile  he  became  drowsy. 
Several  times  he  withdrew  the  big-headed  pin 
which  fastened  the  tidy  to  the  armchair  and  each 
time  restuck  it  in  the  same  place.  Then  he 
coughed,  though  he  really  wanted  to  yawn. 

Fiiger  was  still  taking  notes.  He  only  spoke 
when  the  builder  had  stopped. 

"Mr.  Miinster  called  here.  His  creditors  are 
driving  him  into  bankruptcy  " 

Christopher  Ulwing's  look  became  stern. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before?" 

Fiiger  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  9 

"I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  put  a  word  in  ..." 

The  builder  stood  motionless  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  He  contracted  his  brows  as  if  he  were 
peering  into  the  far  distance. 

Martin  George  Minister,  the  powerful  con- 
tractor, the  qualified  architect,  was  ruined.  The 
last  rival,  the  great  enemy  who  had  so  many  times 
baulked  him,  counted  no  more.  He  thought  of 
humiliations,  of  breathless  hard  fights,  and  of  the 
many  men  who  had  had  to  go  down  that  he  might 
rise.  He  had  vanquished  them  all.  Now,  at 
last,  he  was  really  at  the  top. 

With  his  big  fingers  he  gave  a  contented  twist 
to  the  smart  white  curl  which  he  wore  on  the  side 
of  his  head. 

Fiiger  watched  him  attentively.  Just  then, 
the  candle  lit  up  the  builder's  bony,  clean-shaven 
face,  tanned  by  the  cold  wind.  His  hair  and  eye- 
brows seemed  whiter,  his  eyes  bluer  than  usual. 
His  chin,  turned  slightly  to  one  side  and  drawn 
tightly  into  an  open  white  collar,  gave  him  a  pe- 
culiar, obstinate  expression. 

"There  is  no  sign  of  old  age  about  him!" 
thought  the  little  book-keeper,  and  waited  to  be 
addressed. 

"Mr.  Miinster  lost  three  hundred  thousand 
Rhenish  guldens.  He  could  not  stand  that." 

Christopher  Ulwing  nodded.  Meanwhile  he 
calculated,  cool  and  unmoved. 

"I  must  see  the  books  and  balance  sheet  of 
Miinster 's  firm."  While  he  spoke,  he  reflected 


10  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

that  he  was  now  rich  enough  to  have  a  heart.  A 
heart  is  a  great  burden  and  hampers  a  man  in 
his  movements.  As  long  as  he.Tvas  rising,  he 
had  had  to  set  it  aside.  That  was  over.  He  had 
reached  the  summit. 

"I  will  help  Martin  George  Miinster,"  he  said 
quietly,  "I  will  put  him  on  his  legs  again,  but 
so  that  in  future  he  shall  stand  by  me,  not  against 
me." 

Fiiger,  moved,  blinked  several  times  in  quick 
succession  under  his  spectacles,  as  if  applauding 
his  master  with  his  eyelids. 

This  settled  business  for  Christopher  Ulwing. 
He  snuffed  the  candle.  Turning  to  his  son: 

"Have  you  been  to  the  Town  Hall?" 

John  Hubert  felt  his  father's  voice  as  if  it 
had  gripped  him  by  the  shoulder  and  shaken  him. 

"Are  you  not  tired,  sir?"  As  a  last  defence 
this  question  rose  to  his  lips.  It  might  free  him 
and  leave  the  matter  till  to-morrow.  But  his 
father  did  not  even  deem  it  deserving  of  an  an- 
swer. 

"Did  you  make  a  speech?" 

"Yes  .  .  ."  John  Hubert's  voice  was  soft  and 
hesitating.  He  always  spoke  his  words  in  such 
a  way  as  to  make  it  easy  to  withdraw  them.  "I 
said  what  you  told  me  to,  but  I  fear  it  did  little 
good.  .  .  ." 

"You  think  so?"  For  a  moment  a  cunning 
light  flashed  up  in  Christopher  Ulwing's  eye, 
then  he  smiled  contemptuously.  "True.  Such 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  11 

as  we  must  act.  We  may  think  too,  but  only  if 
we  get  a  great  gentleman  to  tell  our  thoughts. 
Nevertheless,  I  want  you  to  speak.  I  shall  make 
of  you  a  gentleman  great  enough  to  get  a  hear- 
ing." 

Fiiger  bowed.  John  Hubert  began  to  com- 
plain. "When  I  proposed  to  plant  trees  along 
the  streets  of  the  town,  a  citizen  asked  me  if  I 
had  become  a  gardener.  As  to  the  lighting  of 
the  streets  they  said  that  drunkards  can  cling  to 
the  walls  of  the  houses.  A  lamp -post  would 
serve  no  other  purpose." 

"That  will  change!"  The  builder's  voice 
warmed  with  great  strong  confidence. 

Young  Ulwing  continued  without  warmth. 

"I  told  them  of  our  new  brickfields  and  in- 
formed them  that  henceforth  we  shall  sell  bricks 
by  retail  to  the  suburban  people.  This  did  not 
please  them.  The  councillors  whispered  to- 
gether." 

"What  did  they  say?"  asked  Christopher  Ul- 
wing coldly. 

John  Hubert  cast  his  eyes  down. 

"Well,  they  said  that  the  great  carpenter  had 
always  made  gold  out  of  other  people's  misery. 
The  great  carpenter !  That  is  what  they  call  you, 
sir,  among  themselves,  though  they  presented 
you  last  year  with  the  freedom  of  the  city.  ..." 

Ulwing  waved  his  hand  disparagingly. 

"Whatever  honours  I  received  from  the  Town 
Hall  count  for  little.  They  have  laden  me  with 


12  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

them  for  their  weight  to  hamper  my  movements, 
so  that  I  may  let  them  sleep  in  peace." 

"And  steal  in  peace,"  said  Fiiger,  making  an 
ironical  circular  movement  with  his  hand  towards 
his  pocket. 

"Let  them  be,"  growled  the  builder,  "there  is 
many  an  honest  man  among  them." 

The  book-keeper  stretched  his  neck  as  if  he 
were  listening  intently,  then  bowed  solemnly  and 
left  the  room. 

Christopher  Ulwing,  left  alone  with  his  son, 
turned  sharply  to  him. 

"What  else  did  you  say  in  the  Town  Hall'" 

"But  you  gave  me  no  other  instructions.  .  .  .?" 

"Surely  you  must  have  said  something  more? 
Something  of  your  own?" 

There  was  silence. 

Young  Ulwing  had  a  feeling  that  he  was 
treated  with  great  injustice.  Was  not  his  father 
responsible  for  everything?  He  had  made  him 
a  man.  And  now  he  was  discontented  with  his 
achievement.  In  an  instant,  like  lightning,  it  all 
flashed  across  his  mind.  His  childhood,  his  years 
in  the  technical  school,  much  timid  fluttering, 
nameless  bitterness,  cowardly  compromise.  And 
those  times,  when  he  still  had  a  will  to  will,  when 
he  wanted  to  love  and  choose:  it  was  crushed  by 
his  father.  His  father  chose  someone  else.  A 
poor  sempstress  was  not  what  Ulwing  the  builder 
wanted.  He  wanted  the  daughter  of  Ulrich 
Jorg.  She  was  all  right.  She  was  rich.  It 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  13 

lasted  a  short  time.  Christina  Jorg  died.  But 
even  then  he  was  not  allowed  to  think  of  another 
woman,  a  new  life.  "The  children!"  his  father 
said,  and  he  resigned  himself  because  Christopher 
Ulwing  was  the  stronger  and  could  hold  his  own 
more  vehemently.  Unwonted  defiance  mounted 
into  his  head.  For  a  moment  he  rose  as  if  to 
accuse,  his  jaw  turned  slightly  sideways. 

The  old  man  saw  his  own  image  in  him.  He 
looked  intently  as  if  he  wanted  to  fix  forever 
that  beam  of  energy  now  flashing  up  in  his  son's 
eye.  He  had  often  longed  for  it  vainly,  and  now 
it  had  come  unexpectedly,  produced  by  causes 
he  could  not  understand. 

But  slowly  it  all  died  away  in  John  Hubert's 
eyes.  Christopher  Ulwing  bowed  his  head. 

"Go,"  he  said  harshly,  "now  I  am  really  tired." 
In  that  moment  he  looked  like  a  weary  old  wood- 
cutter. His  eyelids  fell,  his  big  bony  hands  hung 
heavily  out  of  his  sleeves. 

A  door  closed  quietly  in  the  corridor  with  a 
spasmodic  creaking.  Ulwing  the  builder  would 
have  liked  it  better  if  it  had  been  slammed.  But 
his  son  shut  every  door  so  carefully.  He  could 
not  say  why.  "What  is  going  to  happen  when 
I  don't  stand  by  his  side?"  he  shuddered.  His 
vitality  was  so  inexhaustible  that  the  idea  of  death 
always  struck  him  as  something  strange,  antago- 
nistic. "What  is  going  to  happen?"  The  ques- 
tion died  away,  he  gave  it  no  further  thought.  He 
stepped  towards  the  next  room  ...  his  grand- 


14  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

children!  They  would  continue  what  the  great 
carpenter  began.  They  would  be  strong.  He 
opened  the  door.  He  crossed 'the  dining  room. 
He  smelt  apples  and  bread  in  the  dark.  One 
more  room,  and  beyond  that  the  children. 

The  air  was  warm.  A  night-light  burned  on 
the  top  of  a  chest  of  drawers.  Miss  Tini  had 
fallen  asleep  sitting  beside  it  with  her  shabby 
prayer  book  on  her  knees.  The  shadow  of  her 
nightcap  rose  like  a  black  trowel  on  the  wall. 
In  the  deep  recess  of  the  earthen-ware  stove 
water  was  warming  in  a  blue  jug.  From  the 
little  beds  the  soft  breathing  of  children  was 
audible. 

Ulwing  leaned  carefully  over  one  of  the  beds. 
The  boy  slept  there.  His  small  body  was  curled 
up  under  the  blankets  as  if  seeking  shelter  in  his 
sleep  from  something  that  came  with  night  and 
prowled  around  his  bed. 

The  old  man  bent  over  him  and  kissed  his 
forehead.  The  boy  moaned,  stared  for  a  second, 
frightened,  into  the  air,  then  hid  trembling  in  his 
pillows. 

Mamsell  Tini  woke,  but  dared  not  move.  The 
master  builder  stood  so  humbly  before  the  child, 
that  it  did  not  become  a  salaried  person  to  see 
such  a  thing.  She  turned  her  head  away  and 
listened  thus  to  her  master's  voice. 

"I  didn't  mean  to.  Now,  don't  be  afraid,  lit- 
tle Christopher.  It  is  I." 

The  child  was  already  asleep. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  15 

Ulwing  the  builder  stepped  to  the  other  bed. 
He  kissed  Anne  too.  The  little  girl  was  not 
startled.  Her  fair  hair,  like  a  silver  spray,  moved 
around  her  head  on  the  pillow.  She  thrust  her 
tiny  arms  round  her  grandfather's  neck  and  re- 
turned his  kiss. 

When,  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  Christopher  Ul- 
wing left  the  room,  Miss  Tini  looked  after  him. 
She  thought  that,  after  all,  the  Ulwings  were 
kindly  people. 


A  glaring  white  light  streamed  through  the 
windows  into  the  room.  Winter  had  come  over 
the  world  during  the  night  and  the  children  put 
their  heads  together  to  discuss  it.  They  had  for- 
gotten since  last  year  what  winter  was  like. 

Below,  the  great  green  water  crawled  cold 
between  its  white  banks.  The  castle  hill  opposite 
was  white  too.  The  top  of  the  bastions,  the 
ridges  of  the  roofs,  the  spires  of  the  steeples, 
everything  that  was  usually  sharp  and  pointed 
was  now  rounded  and  blunted  by  the  snow. 

The  church  tower  of  Our  Lady  belonged  to 
Anne.  The  Garrison  Church  was  little  Christo- 
pher's. A  long  time  had  passed  since  the  chil- 
dren had  divided  these  from  their  windows,  and, 
because  Christopher  grew  peevish,  Anne  had  al- 
so given  him  the  shingled  roof  of  the  Town  Hall 
of  Buda  and  the  observatory  on  Mount  St.  Gel- 


16  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

lert.  She  only  kept  the  Jesuits'  Stairs  to  her- 
self. 

"And  I'll  tell  on  you,  how  .you  spat  into  the 
clerk's  tumbler.  No,  no,  I  won't  give  it!"  Anne 
shook  her  head  so  emphatically  that  her  fair  hair 
got  all  tangled  in  front  of  her  eyes.  She  would 
not  have  given  the  Jesuits'  Stairs  for  anything  in 
the  world.  That  was  the  way  up  to  the  castle, 
to  Uncle  Sebastian.  And  she  often  looked 
over  to  him  from  the  nursery  window.  In  the 
morning,  when  she  woke,  she  waved  both  hands 
towards  the  other  shore.  In  the  evening  she  put 
a  tallow  candle  on  the  window-sill  to  let  Uncle 
Sebastian  see  that  she  was  thinking  of  him. 

Then  Sebastian  Ulwing  would  answer  from 
the  other  shore.  He  lit  a  small  heap  of  straw 
on  the  castle  wall  and  through  the  intense  dark- 
ness the  tiny  flames  wished  each  other  good  night 
above  the  Danube. 

"The  Jesuits'  Stairs  are  mine,"  said  Anne  reso- 
lutely and  went  into  the  other  room. 

The  little  boy  sulked  for  some  time  and  then 
followed  her  on  tiptoe.  In  the  doorway  he 
looked  round  anxiously.  He  was  afraid  of  this 
room  though  it  was  brighter  than  any  other  and 
Anne  called  it  the  sunshine  room.  The  yellow- 
checked  wall  paper  looked  sparkling  and  even 
on  a  cloudy  day  the  cherry-wood  furniture  looked 
as  if  the  sun  shone  on  it.  The  chairs'  legs  stood 
stiffly  on  the  floor  of  scrubbed  boards  and  their 
backs  were  like  lyres.  That  room  was  mother's. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  17 

She  did  not  live  in  it  because  she  had  gone  to 
heaven  and  had  not  yet  returned  home,  but  every- 
thing was  left  as  it  had  been  when  she  went  away. 
Her  portrait  hung  above  the  flowered  couch,  her 
sewing-machine  stood  in  the  recess  near  the  win- 
dow. The  piano  had  been  hers  too  and  the  chil- 
dren were  forbidden  to  touch  it.  Yet,  Chris- 
topher was  quite  sure  that  it  was  full  of  piano- 
mice,  who  at  night,  when  everybody  is  asleep, 
run  about  in  silver  shoes  and  then  the  air  rings 
with  their  patter. 

"Let  us  go  from  here,"  he  said  trembling, 
"but  you  go  first." 

There  was  nobody  in  grandfather's  room. 
Only  some  crackling  from  the  stove.  Only  the 
ticking  of  the  marble  clock  on  the  writing  table. 

Suddenly  little  Christopher  became  braver. 
He  ran  to  the  stove.  The  stove  was  a  solid  sil- 
ver-grey earthenware  column.  On  its  top  there 
was  an  urn  emitting  white  china  flames,  rigid 
white  china  flames.  This  was  beautiful  and  in- 
comprehensible and  Christopher  liked  to  look  at 
them. 

He  pointed  to  the  brass  door.  Through  the 
ventilators  one  could  see  what  was  going  on  in- 
side the  stove. 

"Now  the  stove  fairies  are  dancing  in  there!" 

In  vain  Anne  looked  through  the  holes;  she 
could  not  see  any  fairies.  Ordinary  flames  were 
bobbing  up  above  the  cinders.  The  smoke  slowly 
twisted  itself  up  into  the  chimney. 


18  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"Aren't  they  lovely?  They  have  red  dresses 
and  sing,"  said  the  boy.  The  little  girl  turned 
away  bored. 

"I  only  hear  the  ticking  of  the  clock."  Sud- 
denly she  stood  on  tiptoe.  When  she  did  so, 
the  corners  of  her  eyes  and  of  her  mouth  rose 
slightly.  She  too  wanted  to  invent  something 
curious : 

"Tick-tack.  ...  A  little  dwarf  hobbles  in  the 
room.  Do  you  hear?  Tick-tack.  .  .  ." 

Christopher's  eyes  shone  with  delight. 

"I  do  hear.  .  .  .  And  the  dwarf  never  stops, 
does  he?" 

"Never,"  said  Anne  convincingly,  though  she 
was  not  quite  sure  herself,  "he  never  stops,  but 
we  must  not  talk  about  it  to  the  grown-ups." 

Christopher  repeated  religiously: 

"The  grown-ups  must  never  know.  And  this 
is  truly  true,  isn't  it?  Grandpa  has  said  it  too, 
hasn't  he?" 

Anne  remembered  that  grandpa  never  told 
stories  about  dwarfs  and  fairies. 

"Yes,  Grandpa  has  said  it,"  the  boy  confirmed 
himself. 

The  whole  thing  got  mixed  up  in  Anne's  brain. 
And  from  that  moment  both  believed  absolutely 
that  their  grandfather  had  said  it  and  that  it  was 
really  a  dwarf  who  walked  in  the  room,  hobbling 
with  small  steps,  without  ever  stopping.  Tick- 
tack.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  hear  it?" 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  19 

The  peaceful  silence  of  the  corridor  echoed 
the  ticking  of  the  clock.  It  could  even  be  heard 
on  the  staircase  which  sank  like  a  cave  from  the 
corridor  to  the  hall.  And  then  the  dwarf  van- 
ished out  of  the  children's  heads. 

The  back  garden  was  white  and  the  roof 
looked  like  a  hillside  covered  with  snow.  Where 
the  dragon-headed  gargoyle  protruded,  the  house 
turned  sharply  and  its  inner  wing  extended  in- 
to the  deep  back  garden.  Mr.  Augustus  Fiiger 
lived  there  with  his  wife  and  his  son  Otto. 

Mrs.  Augustus  Fiiger,  Henrietta,  was  for  ever 
sitting  in  the  window  and  sewing.  At  this  very 
moment,  her  big  bonnet  was  visible,  looking  like 
a  white  cat  on  the  window  sill.  Fortunately, 
she  did  not  look  out  of  the  window.  The  garden 
belonged  entirely  to  the  children.  Theirs  was 
the  winged  pump  of  the  well,  theirs  the  circular 
seat  round  the  apple  tree.  Their  kingdom.  .  .  . 
In  winter  the  garden  seemed  small,  but  in 
summer  when  the  trees  were  covered  with  leaves 
and  the  lilac-bushes  hid  the  secret  places,  it  be- 
came enormous.  Through  its  high  wall  a  gate 
led  to  the  world's  end ;  a  grilled  gate  which  grown- 
ups alone  were  privileged  to  open. 

Sometimes  Anne  and  Christopher  would  peep 
longingly  for  hours  through  its  rails.  They 
could  see  the  roof  of  the  tool-shed,  the  tar  boiler 
and  a  motley  of  pieces  of  timber,  beams,  floor- 
ings, piles.  What  lovely  slides  they  would  have 
made  if  only  one  could  have  got  at  fhem!  The 


20  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

old  folks  called  this  glorious,  disorderly  place, 
where  rude  big  men  in  leather  aprons  used  to 
work,  the  timber  yard.  The  children  did  not 
approve  of  this  name,  they  preferred  "world's 
end."  They  liked  it  on  a  summer  Sunday  best 
when  all  was  quiet  and  the  smell  of  the  heated 
timber  penetrated  the  courtyard  and  even  the 
house.  Then  one  could  believe  in  the  secret 
known  to  Christopher.  It  was  not  a  timber  yard 
at  all.  The  grown-ups  had  no  business  with  it. 
It  was  beyond  all  manner  of  doubt  the  play- 
ground of  giant  children  who  had  strewn  it  with 
their  building  bricks. 

"And  when  I  sleep,  they  play  with  them,"  the 
boy  whispered. 

"One  can't  believe  that  just  now,"  Anne  an- 
swered seriously,  "when  everything  is  so  clear." 

Crestfallen,  Christopher  walked  behind  her  in 
the  snow.  They  only  stopped  under  the  porch 
in  front  of  a  door  bearing  a  board  with  the  in- 
scription "Canzelei."  *  This  word  sounded  like 
a  sneeze.  It  tickled  the  children's  lips.  It  made 
them  laugh. 

Anne  and  Christopher  knocked  their  shoulders 
together. 

"Canzelei.  .  .  .  Canzelei!" 

The  door  opened.  The  clerk  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  He  was  a  thin  little  man  with  a 
starved  expression,  wearing  a  long  alpaca  frock- 
coat  ;  when  he  walked,  his  knees  knocked  together. 
*  Canzelei=office  (German). 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  21 

Anne  knew  something  about  him.  Grandpa  had 
said  it  when  he  was  in  a  temper:  Feuerlein  was 
stupid!  The  only  one  among  grown-ups  of 
whom  one  knew  such  a  thing  beyond  doubt. 

The  children  looked  at  each  other  and  their 
small  cheeks  swelled  with  suppressed  laughter; 
then,  like  snakes,  they  slid  through  the  open  door 
into  the  office. 

"He  is  stupid,  though  he  is  grown  up,"  Anne 
whispered  into  the  boy's  ear. 

"And  I  will  spit  into  his  tumbler!"  Now  they 
laughed  freely,  triumphantly. 

Their  laughter  suddenly  stopped. 

Mr.  Gemming,  the  draughtsman,  had  banged 
his  triangular  ruler  down  and  began  to  growl. 
Augustus  Fiiger  tugged  the  sleeve-protector  he 
wore  on  his  right  arm  during  business  hours. 

"Don't  grumble,  Gemming.  Don't  forget 
that  one  day  he  will  be  head  of  the  firm,  won't 
you,  little  Christopher?  And  you  will  sit  in 
there  behind  the  great  writing  table?" 

Christopher  looked  fearfully  towards  the  door 
that  led  to  his  grandfather's  office.  In  there? 
Always?  Quiet  and  serious — even  when  he 
wanted  to  play  with  his  tin  soldiers?  With  a 
shudder,  he  rushed  across  the  room.  No,  he 
would  rather  not  set  his  foot  here  again;  nasty 
place  that  smelt  of  ink. 

The  door  from  which  he  had  fled  opened.  Ul- 
wing  the  builder  showed  a  strange  gentleman 
through  the  room. 


22  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

The  little  book-keeper  began  to  write  sud- 
denly. Gemming  dipped  his  pencil  into  the  ink- 
stand. In  the  neighbouring  *oom  the  pens 
scratched  and  the  children  shrank  to  the  wall. 
The  strange  gentleman  stopped.  Anne  saw  his 
face  clearly;  it  was  fat  and  pale.  Under  his 
heavy  double  chin  the  sail-like  collar  looked 
crushed. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  strange  gentleman  and 
cast  his  eyes  down  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  some- 
thing. He  held  out  a  flabby  white  hand  to  Chris- 
topher Ulwing.  The  hand  trembled.  His  lips 
quivered  too. 

"Don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Minister.  It  is  just 
business.  .  .  ." 

This  was  said  by  the  builder  under  the  porch, 
and  they  heard  it  in  the  office. 

Gemming  began  to  shake  the  point  of  the 
pencil  he  had  dipped  in  the  ink.  Fiiger  blinked 
and  blinked.  Both  felt  that  Martin  George 
Minister  had  fallen  from  his  greatness  to  their 
own  level.  He  too  was  in  Ulwing's  service. 

When  the  builder  returned,  his  crooked  chin 
settled  snugly  in  his  open  collar. 

Suddenly  he  perceived  the  children. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  He  would  have 
liked  to  sit  down  with  them  on  the  heap  of  office 
books.  Just  for  a  minute,  just  long  enough  to 
let  their  hands  stroke  his  face.  He  took  his  re- 
peater out  of  his  pocket. 

"It  can't  be  done."     He  still  had  to  settle  with 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  23 

many  people.  Contractors,  timber  merchants, 
masons,  carters — they  were  all  waiting  behind 
the  grating,  in  the  big  room  opening  into  the 
garden.  And  John  Hubert  had  already  twice 
thrust  his  head  through  the  door  as  if  he  wanted 
to  call  him.  He  went  on.  But  on  the  threshold 
he  had  to  turn  back.  "This  afternoon  we  will 
go  to  Uncle  Sebastian.  We  will  take  leave  of 
him  before  the  floating  bridge  is  removed." 

The  children  grinned  with  delight. 

"We  shall  go  in  a  coach,  shan't  we?"  asked  the 
boy. 

"We  shall  walk,"  answered  Ulwing  drily; 
"the  horses  are  needed  to  cart  wood!"  And  with 
that  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Walk,"  repeated  Christopher,  disappointed. 
"I  don't  like  it.  And  I  won't  go.  And  I  have 
a  pain  in  my  foot." 

He  walked  lamely,  rubbing  his  shoulders 
against  the  wall.  He  moaned  pitiably.  But 
Anne  knew  all  the  while  that  he  was  shamming. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  old  man  and  the  little  girl  walked 
slowly  down  to  the  banks  of  the  river. 
The  little  squares  of  the  windows  and  the 
two  figures  under  the  porch  gazed  for  a 
long  time  after  them.  A  cold  snowy  wind  was 
blowing  from  the  white  hills.  Water  mills 
floated  on  the  Danube.  Horses,  harnessed  one 
in  front  of  the  other,  dragged  a  barge  at  the  foot 
of  the  castle  hill,  and  small  dark  skiffs  moved  to 
and  fro  in  the  stream,  as  if  Pest  and  Buda  were 
taking  leave  of  each  other  before  the  advent  of 
winter. 

On  the  shore  shipwrights  were  at  work.  When 
they  perceived  Christopher  Ulwing,  they  stopped 
and  greeted  him  respectfully.  A  gentleman 
came  in  the  opposite  direction ;  he  too  doffed  his 
hat.  Near  the  market  place  ladies  and  gentle- 
men were  walking.  Everybody  saluted  Ulwing 
the  builder. 

Anne  was  proud.     Her  face  flushed. 

"Everybody  salutes  us,  don't  they?  Are 
there  many  people  living  here?" 

"Many,"  said  her  grandfather,  and  thought 
of  something  else. 

"How  many?" 

"We  can't  know  that;  the  gentry  won't  sub- 
mit to  a  census." 

24 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  25 

"And  are  there  many  children  here?" 

The  builder  did  not  answer. 

"Say,  Grandpa,  you  never  were  a  child,  were 
you?" 

"I  was,  but  not  here." 

"Were  you  not  always  in  our  house,  Grandpa?" 
asked  the  child,  indefatigable. 

Ulwing  smiled. 

"We  came  from  a  great  distance,  far,  far  away, 
Uncle  Sebastian  and  I.  By  coach,  as  long  as 
our  money  lasted,  then  on  foot.  In  those  days 
the  summers  were  warmer  than  they  are  now. 
At  night  we  wandered  by  moonlight.  .  .  ." 

He  relapsed  into  silence.  His  mind  looked 
elsewhere  than  his  eyes.  The  fortress  of  Pest! 
Then  the  bastions  and  walls  of  Pest  were  still 
standing.  And  he  entered  the  city  through  one 
of  its  old  gates. 

"It  was  in  the  morning  and  the  church  bells 
were  ringing,"  he  said  deep  in  thought. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  the 
town  of  times  gone  by,  not  as  a  reality,  but  as 
an  old,  old  fading  picture.  White  bewigged 
citizens  in  three-cornered  hats  were  walking  the 
streets.  Carts  suspended  on  chains.  Soldiers 
in  high  shakos.  And  how  young  and  free  the 
Danube  was!  Its  waters  shone  more  brightly 
and  its  shore  swarmed  with  ship-folk.  Brother 
Sebastian  went  down  to  the  bank.  He  himself 
stopped  and  looked  at  a  gaudy,  pretty  barge,  in- 
to which  men  were  carrying  bags  across  two 


26  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

boards.  They  went  on  one,  returned  by  the 
other.  A  clerk  was  standing  on  the  shore,  count- 
ing tallies  on  a  piece  of  wood  for  every  bag. 
The  half-naked  dockers  shone  with  sweat.  They 
carried  their  loads  on  their  shoulders  just  as 
their  fore-fathers  had  carried  them  here  on  the 
Danube  for  hundreds  of  years.  The  boards  bent 
and  swayed  under  their  weight.  The  clerk 
swore.  "There  are  too  few  men."  He  looked 
invitingly  at  Christopher  Ulwing.  But  Chris- 
topher did  not  touch  the  bags.  His  attention 
was  attracted  by  something  in  the  sand  which 
entered  his  eyes  like  a  pinprick,  the  glittering 
blade  of  an  axe.  He  remembered  clearly  every 
word  he  said.  "Knock  those  two  boards  to- 
gether. In  an  hour  we  can  slide  the  whole  cargo 
into  the  barge." 

Down  at  the  shore,  brother  Sebastian  jumped 
into  a  boat.  He  pointed  with  his  staff  towards 
Buda.  He  called  his  brother,  waving  his  hand. 

"I  remain  here,"  was  the  determined  answer, 
and  he  picked  the  axe  up  from  the  sand. 

The  clerk  watched  him  carefully  and  nodded 
approvingly.  A  few  minutes  later,  the  bags  slid 
speedily  down  the  improvised  slide,  and  the  barge, 
like  a  greedy  monster,  gulped  them  up  into 
its  maw. 

The  boat  and  brother  Sebastian  left  the  shore. 
They  were  already  in  the  middle  of  the  Danube. 
The  stream  and  the  oars,  chance  and  will,  carried 
his  life  into  the  opposite  town.  Christopher  Ul- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  27 

wing  remained  in  Pest.  Next  day,  he  worked 
in  the  office  of  the  ship-broker.  Then  he  went 
into  the  timber  yard.  Then  further.  Advanc- 
ing. Rising.  And  the  town  grew  with  him  as 
if  their  fate  had  been  one. 

Vainly  did  Anne  ask  a  thousand  little  ques- 
tions; her  grandfather  did  not  answer.  He 
walked  far  behind  his  present  self. 

They  reached  the  boat-bridge.  Here  too  the 
men  saluted.  The  collector  asked  for  no  toll. 
At  the  bridge-head,  the  sentry  presented  arms. 

"Why?"  Anne  had  asked  this  question  every 
time  she  had  crossed  the  bridge  in  her  short  life. 

"They  know  me,"  the  builder  answered  simply. 

What  need  was  there  for  the  children  to  know 
that  he  owned  the  bridge,  had  contracted  for  the 
right  of  way  over  the  river;  that  the  many  rafts 
floating  down  the  Danube  were  his  as  well  as 
the  land  above  them  on  the  banks. 

The  bridge  trembled  rhythmically.  The 
stream  rocked  the  boats.  It  foamed,  splashed,  as 
if  thirsty  giant  animals  were  lapping  at  the  hulls 
of  the  many  chained  little  boats.  Lamps  stood 
near  the  pillars.  In  the  middle,  a  coloured  spot 
above  the  water:  the  guardian  saint  of  the  river, 
the  carved  image  of  St.  John  Nepomuk.  Be- 
neath it,  people  passed  to  and  fro,  raising  their 
hats. 

Anne  pointed  to  the  saint :  "People  salute  him 
too,  even  more  than  Grandpa."  And  she  was  a 
little  envious. 


28  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

When  they  reached  the  castle  on  the  hill,  the 
little  girl  began  to  complain:  "I  am  hungry." 

The  stones  of  the  narrow,  snow-covered  pave- 
ment clattered  quietly  under  the  builder's  long, 
firm  steps. 

Around  them  decaying  houses.  Yellow,  grey, 
green.  Gilt  "bretzels,"  giant  keys,  boots  and 
horse-shoes  dangled  into  the  street  from  over  the 
tiny  shops,  suspended  from  brackets  which  were 
ornamented  with  spirals  of  forged  steel. 

Above  the  shop  of  Uncle  Sebastian,  a  big 
watch  was  hung.  From  far  away  Anne  recog- 
nised the  immobile  golden  hands  on  its  face. 
The  tower  of  Our  Lady's  Church  cast  its  shadow 
just  up  to  it.  It  pointed  into  the  street  like  a 
black  signpost.  The  house  itself  was  probably 
older  than  the  others.  Its  upper  storey  pro- 
truded above  the  ground  floor  and  was  supported 
by  several  beams  above  the  pavement.  On  the 
bare  wall,  just  behind  the  clock-sign,  an  inscrip- 
tion, with  curious  flourishes,  was  visible: 

SEBASTIAN  ULWING 
CITY  CLOCKMAKER 

The  shop  was  crowded.  Neighbours,  burghers 
from  the  castle,  came  here  every  afternoon  to 
warm  themselves.  Uncle  Sebastian  sat  before 
his  little  clockmaker's  table.  He  was  silent. 
His  white  hair,  smoothed  back  from  his  forehead, 
fell  on  the  collar  of  his  violet  tail-coat.  His  fig- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  29 

ure  was  tall  and  bent.  According  to  old  fashion 
he  wore  knee-breeches.  On  his  heavy  shoes  the 
buckles  were  a  little  rusty;  the  thick  white 
stockings  formed  creases.  When  he  perceived 
Anne,  he  began  to  laugh.  He  caught  her  up  in 
his  arms  and  raised  her  high  into  the  air. 

"Where  is  little  Christopher?" 

"He  has  a  pain  in  his  foot,"  said  the  master 
builder,  bowing  to  the  company.  Anne  turned 
up  her  nose  significantly.  The  children  did  not 
think  Uncle  Sebastian  belonged  quite  among  the 
grown-ups.  He  understood  many  things  grand- 
father could  not  grasp.  They  put  their  heads 
together,  secretively,  affectionately.  Anne  be- 
gan to  dangle  her  little  legs  in  the  air  and  ask  for 
gingerbread.  Then  she  proceeded  to  investigate 
the  shop. 

At  the  bottom  of  it  a  semi-circular  window 
opened  on  a  courtyard.  A  deep  leather  arm- 
chair and  a  long  table  with  curved  legs  stood  in 
front  of  the  window.  The  table  was  covered 
with  a  lot  of  old  rubbish.  The  shelves  too  were 
laden  with  odds  and  ends.  Watches  and  clocks 
covered  the  grimy  walls. 

Near  the  table,  a  lady  tried  to  sell  a  repousse, 
silver,  dove-shaped  loving-cup.  Perceiving 
Christopher  Ulwing,  she  curtseyed  deeply. 

"With  your  permission,  I  am  Amalia  Csik, 
from  the  Fisherman's  bastion." 

She  wore  a  hat  like  a  hamper.  Everything 
on  her  was  faded  and  shabby.  Anne  noticed 


30  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

that  whenever  she  moved  a  musty  odour  spread 
from  her  clothes.  In  the  shop  nobody  took  any 
notice  of  this.  All  these  people  were  dressed 
differently  from  her  grandfather. 

"Even  the  little  children  are  dressed  in  a  mod- 
ish way,"  the  lady  said  disparagingly.  "Of 
course,  everything  in  Pest  is  different  from  what 
we  have  in  Buda.  .  .  .  We,  here  in  the  castle, 
are  faithful  to  our  own  ways,  thank  God.  Are 
we  not,  your  reverence?" 

The  castle  chaplain  nodded  several  times  his 
yellow,  bird-like  head. 

"I  hear,"  said  the  lady,  "that  they  have  started 
a  fashion  paper  in  Pest." 

"Yes,  and  they  print  it  in  the  same  type  as 
the  prayer  books,"  grumbled  the  chaplain. 

The  lady  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"Notwithstanding  that  the  devil  himself  is  the 
editor  of  fashion  papers." 

"Of  all  newspapers,"  said  the  official  censor 
of  the  Governor's  council  from  beside  the  stove. 

Christopher  Ulwing  raised  one  eyebrow  in 
sign  of  derision.  "Is  it  the  censor  who  says 
that?" 

"It  is  I,"  came  the  answer,  emphatically,  as  if 
an  incontrovertible  argument  had  been  thrust 
into  the  discussion. 

"Literary  people  in  Pest  have  a  different  opin- 
ion," grumbled  the  builder. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  not  to  drag  them 
in.  As  censor,  I  am  a  literary  man  myself.  ..." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  31 

The  builder  was  getting  more  and  more  impa- 
tient. The  censor  turned  to  the  chaplain. 

"The  written  word  must  not  serve  the  ideals 
of  the  individual  but  the  purposes  of  the  State 
and  Church." 

Christopher  Ulwing  went  to  the  door.  He 
would  have  liked  to  let  a  little  fresh  air  into  the 
place.  Suddenly  he  turned  back  angrily:  '"I 
suppose,  gentlemen,  you  only  approve  of  medi- 
ocrity?" 

"Well  said,  Mr.  Builder.  Nothing  but  the 
mediocre  is  useful  to  the  organization  of  the 
State.  That  which  is  above  or  below  only  causes 
uncomfortable  disorder." 

He  did  not  himself  know  why,  but,  all  of  a 
sudden,  Christopher's  thoughts  went  to  the  book- 
shop of  Ulrich  Jorg  in  Pest.  He  remembered 
the  young  authors  who  frequented  it ;  their  plans, 
their  manuscripts,  detained  in  the  censor's  sieve. 
All  those  ambitious  hopes,  new  dreams  and  awak- 
ening thoughts,  younger  than  he,  a  little  beyond 
his  ken,  but  which  he  loved  as  he  loved  his  grand- 
children. 

He  turned  his  back  furiously  on  the  censor 
and  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  room  feeling  that 
if  he  spoke  he  would  say  something  rude. 

The  chaplain  said  with  indignation: 

"All  those  people  from  Pest  are  such  rebels!" 

The  lady  exclaimed  suddenly:  "There  comes 
the  wife  of  the  Councillor  of  the  Governor's  coun- 
cil! She  is  wearing  her  silver- wedding  hat!" 


32  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

All  thronged  to  the  door.  The  shop  became 
quite  dark  as  the  fat  "Mrs.  Councillor"  passed  in 
front  of  it.  The  chaplain  and  the  others  took 
their  hats  and  followed  her;  let  the  people  think 
they  were  in  her  company.  Quite  a  crowd  for 
Buda,  at  least  six  people  went  down  Tarnok 
Street  at  the  same  time.  Even  the  good  lady 
with  the  big  hat  remembered  some  urgent  busi- 
ness. She  quickly  concluded  the  sale  of  the  lov- 
ing-cup, bowed,  and  rushed  after  the  others. 

Christopher  Ulwing  came  forward. 

"What  a  bureaucratic  air  there  is  in  Buda. 
I  prefer  your  friends  who  come  after  closing 
hours:  the  lame  wood-carver  and  the  old  spec- 
tacle-maker. Even  if  they  do  not  carry  the 
world  forward,  they  don't  attempt  to  push  it 
back." 

Sebastian  laughed  good-naturedly: 

"These  too  are  good  people,  only  different 
from  you  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  We 
have  time,  you  are  in  a  hurry.  You  are  for 
ever  wanting  new-fashioned  things.  Somebody 
who  reads  newspapers  told  the  chaplain  that  your 
son  spoke  at  the  Town  Hall.  Now  you  want 
avenues,  lamps,  brick-built  houses.  .  .  .  What 
are  we  coming  to?" 

The  builder  looked  deeply  and  calmly  into  his 
brother's  eyes. 

"Brother  Sebastian,  we  have  to  change  or  time 
will  beat  us." 

The  clockmaker  became  embarrassed. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  33 

"Ah,  but  old  things,  old  ways  are  so  pleasant.'* 

Christopher  Ulwing  pointed  to  the  loving- 
cup. 

"This  too  is  old,  but  this  has  a  right  to  remain 
because  it  is  beautiful.  Do  you  remember,  our 
father  too  made  some  like  this.  The  time  may 
come  when  you  will  get  a  lot  of  money  for  it.  I 
should  like  to  buy  it  myself." 

Sebastian  looked  anxiously  at  his  brother. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  sell  this  either."  The 
builder  again  became  impatient.  "You  buy  to 
do  business,  but  when  it  comes  to  selling.  .  .  ." 

The  clockmaker  took  the  dove-shaped  cup  into 
his  hand.  He  held  it  gently,  tenderly,  as  if  it 
were  a  live  bird.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  not  yet.     I  will  sell  it  another  day." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"Because  I  want  to  look  at  it  for  some  time," 
said  Sebastian  gently,  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of 
himself. 

"That's  the  way  to  remain  poor.  To  keep 
everything  that  is  old,  avoid  everything  that  is 
new.  Do  you  know,  Brother  Sebastian,  you  are 
just  the  same  as  Buda.  ..." 

"And  you  are  just  like  Pest,"  retorted  Sebas- 
tian modestly. 

They  smiled  at  each  other  quietly. 

Anne  meanwhile  was  playing  at  the  tool  table 
and  dropping  wheels  and  watch-springs  into  the 
oil  bottle. 

Uncle   Sebastian  did  not  want  to  spoil  her 


34  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

pleasure  but  watched  every  movement  of  hers 
anxiously.  When  the  child  noticed  that  she  was 
observed,  she  withdrew  her  hand  suddenly.  She 
stared  innocently  at  the  walls. 

"I  am  bored,"  she  said  sadly,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Do  tell  me  a  story." 

"I  don't  know  any  to-day,"  said  Uncle  Sebas- 
tian. 

"You  always  know  some  for  you  read  such 
a  lot.  .  .  ."  While  saying  this  she  drew  from 
the  pocket  of  Uncle  Sebastian's  coat  a  well-worn 
little  green  book. 

"Demokritos,  or  the  posthumous  writings  of 
a  laughing  philosopher."  This  was  Sebastian 
Ulwing's  favorite  book. 

"Here  you  are!"  cried  Anne,  waving  her  prey 
triumphantly.  "Now  come  along,  tell  me  a 
story." 

The  clockmaker  shook  his  head.  It  still 
weighed  on  his  mind  that  he  and  the  builder  could 
never  understand  each  other.  He  was  proud  of 
his  brother.  He  felt  his  will,  his  strength,  but 
that  was  wellnigh  all  he  knew  about  him.  Had 
he  rejoiced,  had  he  suffered  in  life?  Had  he  ever 
loved,  or  did  he  have  no  love  for  anybody?  .  .  . 
He  thought  of  Barbara,  his  brother's  dead  wife, 
whom  Brother  Christopher  had  snatched  from 
him  and  taken  to  the  altar,  because  he  did  not 
know  that  he,  Sebastian,  had  loved  her  silently  for 
a  long  time.  His  forehead  went  up  in  many 
wrinkles.  .  .  .  We  human  beings  trample  our 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  35 

fellow  creatures  under  our  feet  because  we  don't 
know  them. 

Anne  took  his  hand  and  wrung  it  slowly.  "Do 
tell  me  a  story,  do!" 

Inside,  in  front  of  the  courtyard  window,  the 
builder  turned  the  pages  of  an  old  book. 

Uncle  Sebastian  sat  down  and  lifted  Anne 
into  his  lap.  Casting  occasional  glances  on  his 
brother's  face,  as  if  he  were  reading  in  it,  he  began 
to  tell  his  story. 

"It  happened  a  long,  long  time  ago,  even  be- 
fore I  was  born,  in  the  time  of  the  Turkish 
Pasha's  rule.  A  gay  city  it  was  then,  was  Buda. 
In  every  street  shops  dealing  in  masks  and  fancy 
dresses  were  opened.  When  Carnival  time  came, 
folk  used  to  walk  a-singing  in  the  streets  of  the 
castle;  old  ones,  young  ones,  in  gaudy  fancy 
dress,  with  little  iron  lamps — such  a  crazy  pro- 
cession! The  fun  only  stopped  at  the  dawn  of 
Ash- Wednesday.  All  fancy  dress  shops  were 
closed  and  bolted.  All  were  locked,  except  one 
in  Fortune's  Street  which  remained  open  even 
after  Ash- Wednesday — all  the  year  round. 

"Singly,  secretly,  people  went  to  visit  it,  at 
night,  when  the  castle  gates  had  been  closed  and 
the  fires  at  the  street  corners  put  out.  Among 
the  buyers  were  some  that  had  haughty  faces. 
These  bought  themselves  humble-looking  masks. 
The  cruel  men  bought  kind  ones,  godless  men 
pious  ones,  the  stupid  clever  ones,  the  clever 
simple  ones.  But  the  greatest  number  were 


36  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

those  who  suffered  and  they  bought  masks  which 
showed  a  laughing  face.  That  is  what  happened. 
It  is  a  true  story,"  growled  Uncle* Sebastian,  "and 
it  is  just  as  true  that  those  who  once  put  a  mask 
on  never  took  it  off  again.  Only  on  rare  oc- 
casions did  it  fall  off  their  faces,  on  dark  nights 
when  they  were  quite  alone,  or  when  they  loved, 
or  when  they  saw  money.  .  .  ." 

Again  he  looked  at  his  brother's  face  and  then 
continued  in  a  whisper: 

"The  business  flourished.  Kings,  princes, 
beautiful  princesses,  priests,  soldiers,  burghers, 
everybody,  even  the  Town  Councillors,  went  to 
the  shop.  Its  reputation  had  even  spread  down 
to  the  lower  town.  People  from  the  other  side  of 
the  Danube  came  too.  After  a  time,  the  whole 
world  wore  masks.  Nobody  talked  about  it  but 
all  wore  them  and  the  people  forgot  each  other's 
real  faces.  Nobody  knows  them  any  more.  No- 
body  " 

Uncle  Sebastian  didn't  tell  any  more  and  in 
the  great  silence  the  ticking  of  the  clocks  became 
loud. 

"I  didn't  like  that  story,"  said  Anne,  "tell  me 
about  naughty  children  and  fairies.  That's  pret- 
tier. .  .  ." 

The  clockmaker  probably  did  not  hear  the 
child's  voice.  He  sat  in  his  low  chair  as  if  listen- 
ing for  someone's  steps,  the  steps  of  one  who  had 
passed  away.  He  thought  of  his  tale,  of  his 
brother,  of  Barbara,  of  himself. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  37 

The  builder  closed  the  book.     He  got  up. 

"Let  us  go.     It  is  late." 

And  the  two  Ulwings  took  leave  of  each  other 
for  the  winter. 

On  the  bridge  over  the  Danube  the  sixteen 
lamps  were  already  alight.  Their  light  dropped 
at  equal  distances  into  the  river.  The  water 
played  for  a  time  with  the  beams,  then  left  them 
behind.  It  continued  its  way  in  darkness  to- 
wards the  rock  of  St.  Gellert's  Mount.  Only  the 
chill  of  its  big  wet  mass  was  perceptible  in  the 
night. 

The  snow  began  to  fall  anew.  A  light  flared 
up  here  and  there  in  the  window  of  a  house  near 
the  shore.  The  sound  of  horns  was  audible  on 
the  Danube. 

On  the  bridge,  Anne  suddenly  perceived  her 
father.  Young  Ulwing  walked  under  the  lamps 
with  a  girl.  They  were  close  together.  When 
they  saw  the  builder  and  the  child  they  separated 
rapidly  and  the  girl  ran  in  haste  to  the  other  side 
of  the  bridge. 

Christopher  Ulwing  called  his  son. 

Leaning  against  the  railing,  John  Hubert 
waited  for  them ;  he  was  for  ever  leaning  on  some- 
thing. When  they  reached  him,  he  took  hold 
of  the  little  girl's  free  hand  as  if  he  wanted  to 
put  her  between  himself  and  his  father. 

Anne  was  afraid.  She  felt  that  something 
was  going  on  in  the  silence  over  her  head.  She 
drew  her  shoulders  up.  The  two  men  did  not 


38  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

speak  for  a  long  time  to  each  other.  They 
walked  with  unequal,  apparently  antagonistic 
steps  and  dragged  the  trembling  child  between 
them. 

It  was  Christopher  Ulwing  who  broke  the  si- 
lence. He  shouted  angrily: 

"You  promised  not  to  go  to  her  while  I  was 
alive!  Can't  I  even  trust  your  word?" 

"But,  sir,  don't  forget  the  child  is  herel" 

"She  won't  understand,"  retorted  the  builder 
sharply. 

Anne  understood  the  words  quite  clearly,  but 
what  she  heard  did  not  interest  her.  Her 
thoughts  were  otherwise  engaged.  She  felt 
keenly  that  two  hands  opposed  to  each  other  were 
pressing  her  on  either  side  and  that  some  com- 
munity of  feeling  had  arisen  between  her  father 
and  herself.  They  both  feared  someone  who 
was  stronger  than  they. 

"I  went  to  meet  you,  sir,"  grumbled  John  Hu- 
bert, "and  met  her  by  chance  on  the  bridge." 

Christopher  Ulwing  stopped  dead. 

"Is  that  the  truth?" 

"I  never  told  lies."  Young  Ulwing's  voice 
was  honest  and  sad.  It  sounded  as  if  he  laid 
great  weight  on  what  he  said  because  it  had  cost 
him  so  dear. 

The  builder,  still  angry,  drew  out  his  snuff 
box.  He  tapped  it  sharply  and  opened  it. 

For  ever  so  long  there  had  lived  in  this  box  a 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  39 

quaint  old  tune.  It  woke  at  the  blow  and  the 
snuff  box  began  to  play. 

"Confound  it,"  exclaimed  Christopher  Ulwing, 
and  tapped  it  again  to  silence  it,  but  the  box 
continued  to  play. 

The  two  men,  as  though  they  had  been  inter- 
rupted by  a  comic  interlude,  stopped  talking. 
The  builder  returned  the  box  into  his  pocket. 
Anne  bent  her  head  close  to  her  grandfather's 
coat.  There  was  now  a  sound  in  it  as  if  a  band 
of  little  Christopher's  tin  soldiers  were  playing 
prettily,  delicately,  far,  far  away. 

Florian  was  waiting  with  a  lantern  at  the 
bridgehead  on  the  Pest  side.  Many  small  lamps 
moved  through  the  silence.  Snow  fell  in  the 
dark  streets. 

But  now  Anne  was  leaning  her  tired  head 
fully  on  her  grandfather's  pocket.  "More!"  she 
said  gently  over  and  over  again  and  inhaled  the 
music  of  the  snuff  box  just  as  Mamsell  Tini 
breathed  in  the  lavender  perfume  from  her 
prayer  book. 


CHAPTER  III 

WINTER  came  many  times.     Summer 
came  many  times.     The  children  did 
not  count  them.     Meanwhile  an  iron 
chain    bridge    had    grown    together 
from  the  two  banks  of  the  Danube.     Even  when 
the  ice  was  drifting  it  was  not  taken  to  pieces; 
it  was  beautiful  and  remained  there  all  the  year. 
The  Town  Council  had  planted  rows  of  trees 
along  the  streets.     Oil  lamps  burnt  in  the  streets 
at  nightfall  and  the  Ulwing  house  no  longer  stood 
alone  on  the  shore.     The  value  of  the  ground 
owned  by  the  great  carpenter  had  soared.     Walls 
grew  up  from  the  sand.     Streets  started  on  the 
waste  land,  stopped,  went  on  again.     Work,  life, 
houses,  brick-built  houses,  everywhere. 

Everything  changed ;  only  Ulwing  the  builder 
remained  the  same.  His  clever  eyes  remained 
sharp  and  clear.  He  walked  erect  on  the  scaf- 
foldings, in  the  office,  in  the  timber  yard.  He 
was  a  head  taller  than  anybody  else.  They 
feared  him  at  the  Town  Hall  and  the  contractors 
hated  him.  He  quietly  went  on  buying  and 
building  and  gradually  the  belief  became  a  com- 
mon superstition  that  everything  the  great  car- 
penter touched  turned  into  gold. 

Indoors,  in  the  quiet  safe  well-being  of  the 

40 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  41 

house,  the  marble  clock  continued  to  tick  monot- 
onously, but  the  children  had  long  ago  lost  the 
belief  that  it  was  a  lame  dwarf  who  hobbled 
through  the  rooms.  For  a  long  time  Christopher 
had  even  realized  that  there  were  no  fairies.  His 
grandfather  had  told  him  so.  He  shouted  at 
him  and  took  him  by  the  shoulders: 

"Do  you  hear,  little  one,  there  are  no  fairies 
to  help  us.  Only  weaklings  expect  miracles,  the 
strong  perform  miracles." 

Little  Christopher  often  remembered  his 
grandfather  killing  his  fairies.  What  a  terrible, 
superior  being  he  seemed  to  be!  He  felt  like 
crying;  if  there  were  no  fairies,  he  wondered, 
what  filled  the  darkness,  the  water  of  the  well,  the 
flames?  What  lived  in  them?  And  while  he 
searched  in  bewilderment  his  eyes  seemed  to 
snatch  for  support  like  the  hands  of  a  drowning 
man. 

He  grew  resigned,  however,  and  called  the 
"world's  end"  the  timber  yard,  just  like  any 
grown-up.  Under  his  rarely  moving  eyelids  his 
pale  eyes  would  look  indifferently  into  the  air. 
Only  his  voice  showed  signs  of  disillusion  when- 
ever he  imitated  his  seniors  and  spoke  in  their 
language  of  doings  once  dear  to  him. 

The  years  passed  by  and  the  magic  cave  under 
the  wall  of  the  courtyard  became  a  ditch,  the  ter- 
rifying iron  gate  an  attic  door  and  the  stove 
fairies  ordinary  flames.  The  piano  mice  too 
came  to  an  end.  When  a  string  cracked  now  and 


42  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

then  in  the  house,  Christopher  opened  his  eyes 
widely  and  stared  into  the  darkness  which  had 
become  void  to  him. 

"Anne,  are  you  asleep?" 

"Yes,  long  ago." 

"I  had  such  a  funny  dream  ...  of  a  girl. 
She  raised  her  arms  and  leaned  back." 

"Go  to  sleep." 

Before  Christopher's  eyes  the  darkness  (for- 
saken by  dwarfs  and  fairies  since  he  had  given 
up  believing  in  them)  became  incomprehensibly 
populated.  He  saw  the  girl  of  whom  he  had 
dreamt,  her  face,  her  body  too.  She  was  tall  and 
slender,  her  bosom  rigid,  she  lifted  both  her  arms 
and  twisted  her  hair  like  a  black  mane  round  her 
head.  Just  like  the  sister  of  Gabriel  Hosszu  be- 
fore the  looking-glass  when  he  peeped  at  her  last 
Sunday  through  the  keyhole. 

"Anne  .  .  ." 

The  boy  listened  with  his  mouth  open.  Every- 
thing was  silent  in  the  house.  Suddenly  he 
pulled  the  blanket  over  his  head.  He  began  to 
tell  stories  to  himself.  He  told  how  the  King 
wore  a  golden  crown  and  lived  up  on  the  hill  in 
a  white  castle.  It  was  never  dark  in  the  castle, 
tallow  candles  burnt  all  the  night.  His  bed 
was  guarded  by  slaves,  slaves  did  his  lessons  for 
him,  slaves  brought  a  dark-eyed  princess  to  him. 
Chains  rattled  on  the  princess.  "Take  them 
off!"  he  commanded.  "You  are  free."  The 
princess  knelt  down  at  his  feet  and  asked  what 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  43 

she  should  give  him  for  his  pardon.  "Take  your 
hair  down  and  twist  it  up  again,"  he  said,  said  it 
quite  simply  and  smiled.  And  the  princess  took 
ier  hair  down  many  times  and  many  times  twisted 
it  up  again.  .  .  .  He  fell  asleep  and  still  he 
smiled. 

He  got  into  the  way  of  dreaming  stories.  If, 
while  day-dreaming,  somebody  addressed  him  un- 
expectedly, it  made  him  jump  and  blush,  as 
though  caught  in  the  act  of  doing  wrong.  Then 
he  would  run  to  his  school  books  and  try  hard  to 
do  some  work.  He  learned  with  ease ;  once  read, 
his  lesson  was  learnt,  but  he  could  not  fix  his  at- 
tention for  any  time.  Instead  of  that,  he  drew 
fantastic  castles,  girls  and  long-eared  cats  on  the 
margins  of  his  copy  book.  While  he  was  thus 
engaged,  his  conscience  was  painfully  active  and 
reminded  him  incessantly  that  he  was  expected 
to  study  the  reign  of  King  Bela  III  or  the  course 
of  the  tributaries  of  the  Danube.  Perspiration 
appeared  upon  his  brow.  In  his  terror  he  could 
not  do  his  work.  Every  boy  up  to  the  letter  IT 
had  already  been  called  up  in  school  and  he  was 
sure  that  his  turn  would  come  next  day. 

As  he  had  expected,  he  was  questioned  and 
knew  nothing.  A  fly  buzzed  in  the  air.  He  felt 
as  though  it  buzzed  within  his  head.  The  boys 
laughed.  Gabriel  Hosszu  prompted  aloud, 
Adam  Walter  held  his  book  in  front  of  him,  the 
master  scolded.  But,  when  the  year  came  to  an 
end,  nobody  dared  to  plough  the  grandson  of 


44  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Ulwing  the  builder.  Christopher  began  to  per- 
ceive that  some  invisible  power  protected  him 
everywhere.  The  master  told  him  the  questions 
of  the  coming  examination.  For  a  few  coloured 
marbles  Gabriel  Hosszu  prompted  him  in  Latin. 
For  a  half  penny  little  Gal,  the  hunchback,  did 
his  arithmetic  homework. 

"Things  end  by  coming  all  right,"  thought 
Christopher,  when  the  terrifying  thought  of 
school  intruded  while  he  drew  cats  or  modelled 
clay  men  in  the  garden  instead  of  doing  his  home- 
work. 

"That  boy  can  do  anything  he  likes,"  said  old 
Ulwing,  delighted  with  Christopher's  drawings, 
and  locked  them  carefully  away  in  one  of  the 
many  drawers  of  his  writing-table. 

This  frightened  Christopher.  What  did  the 
grown-up  people  want  to  do  with  him?  He  lost 
his  pleasure  in  drawing  and  gave  up  modelling 
clay  men  in  the  courtyard.  He  became  envious 
of  Anne.  She  had  little  to  learn  and  nobody 
expected  great  things  from  her. 

About  this  time  Anne  began  to  feel  lonely. 
Her  bewildered  eyes  seemed  in  search  of  expla- 
nations. She  grew  fast  and  her  silvery  fair  hair 
became  darker  as  if  something  had  cast  a  shadow 
over  it. 

Mrs.  Fiiger  pushed  her  spectacles  up  into  the 
starched  frills  of  her  bonnet  and  looked  at  her 
attentively. 

"Just  now  you  held  your  head  exactly  as  your 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  45 

mother  used  to.     Dear  good  Mrs.  Christina!" 

Hearing  this,  Anne,  who  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  back  garden,  leaned  her  head  still  more 
sideways.  However,  it  puzzled  her  that  a  per- 
son who  was  still  a  child  could  possibly  resemble 
somebody  who  was  so  very  old  as  to  have  gone 
to  heaven.  Mrs.  Fiiger  smiled  strangely.  In 
her  old  mind,  Anne's  mother,  who  had  died 
young,  could  not  age  and  remained  for  ever  so; 
while  this  young  girl,  who  had  no  memory  of  her 
mother,  thought  of  her  as  incredibly  old. 

"Mrs.  Christina  was  sixteen  years  old  when 
young  Mr.  Ulwing  asked  Ulrich  Jorg  for  her 
hand.  Sixteen  years  old.  When  she  came  here 
she  brought  dolls  with  her  too.  She  would  have 
liked  to  play  battledore  and  shuttlecock  with  her 
husband  in  the  garden.  Every  evening  she 
would  slip  in  here  and  ask  me  to  tell  her  stories." 

As  if  she  had  been  called,  Anne  ran  across 
Mrs.  Henrietta's  threshold.  The  house  smelt 
of  freshly  scrubbed  boards.  Many  preserve 
bottles  stood  in  a  row  on  the  top  of  the  wardrobe. 
Now  and  then,  the  cracking  of  a  dry  parchment 
cover  would  interrupt  the  silence.  Anne 
crouched  down  on  a  footstool  and  surveyed  the 
room.  It  was  full  of  embroidery.  "Keys"  was 
embroidered  in  German  character  on  the  key- 
board, "Sleep  well"  on  a  cushion  and  "Brushes" 
on  a  bag. 

"The  Fiigers  must  be  very  absent-minded  peo- 
ple," mused  the  little  girl;  "it  is  obvious  what  all 


46  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

these  things  are  meant  for,  and  yet  they  have  to 
label  them." 

Mrs.  Henrietta  sighed.  She  could  sigh  most 
depressingly.  When  she  did  so,  her  nostrils 
dilated  and  she  shut  her  eyes. 

"Many  a  time  did  Mrs.  Christina  sit  here  and 
make  me  tell  her  ghost  stories.  She  loved  to 
be  frightened — like  a  child.  She  was  afraid  of 
everything:  of  moths,  of  the  cracking  of  the  fur- 
niture, of  the  master's  voice,  of  ghosts.  At  night 
she  did  not  dare  to  cross  the  garden ;  Leopoldine 
had  to  take  her  hand  and  go  with  her." 

"Leopoldine?     Who  was  she?" 

"My  daughter."  Mrs.  Fiiger's  eyes  wandered 
over  a  picture  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  bay 
window.  It  represented  a  grave  with  weeping 
willows,  made  of  hair,  surrounded  by  an  inscrip- 
tion in  beads:  "Love  Eternal." 

"Is  she  in  heaven  too?" 

"No.  Never  mention  her.  Fiiger  has  for- 
bidden it." 

"Why?" 

"Children  must  not  ask  questions." 

"Mamsell  always  gives  the  same  answer  and 
says  God  will  whisper  to  me  what  I  ought  to 
know.  But  God  never  whispers  to  me." 

"Mrs.  Christina  talked  just  like  that.  She  too 
wanted  to  know  everything.  When  the  maids 
cast  fortunes  with  candle  drippings  she  was  for 
ever  listening  to  their  talk.  Then  she  blushed, 
laughed  and  sang  and  played  the  piano.  Then 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  47 

the   men   in   the   timber   yard   stopped   work." 

Anne  drew  her  knees  up  to  her  chin. 

"Could  she  sing  too?" 

Mrs.  Fiiger  made  a  sign  of  rapture.  "Sing? 
That  was  her  very  life.  She  entered  this  place 
like  a  song,  and  left  it  like  one.  It  rang  through 
the  house  and  before  we  could  grasp  it,  it  was 
gone." 

The  little  girl  did  not  hear  the  old  lady's  last 
words.  She  was  gone  and  suddenly  found  her- 
self in  her  mother's  room.  She  knelt  down  on 
the  small  couch.  There  hung  on  the  wall  the 
portrait,  which  she  had  always  seen,  but  which 
she  now  examined  for  the  first  time. 

The  delicate  water-colour  represented  a  girl 
who  seemed  a  mere  child.  She  looked  sweet  and 
timid.  Her  auburn  hair,  parted  by  a  shining  line 
in  the  middle,  was  gathered  by  a  large  comb  on 
the  top  of  her  head  like  a  bow ;  ringlets  fell  on  the 
side  of  her  face.  The  childish  outline  of  her 
shoulders  emerged  from  a  low-cut  dress.  Her 
hand  held  a  rose  gracefully  in  an  uncomfortable 
position. 

Anne  felt  that  if  she  came  back  she  could  talk 
to  her  about  many  things  of  which  Mamsell  and 
all  the  others  seemed  ignorant.  She  thought 
of  the  daughters  of  Miiller  the  apothecary,  of 
the  Jorgs  and  the  Hosszu  families,  Gal  the  little 
hunchback,  of  the  son  of  Walter  the  wholesale 
linen-draper,  the  Minister  children.  All  had 
mothers.  Everybody — only  she  had  none. 


48  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

And  then,  like  a  cry  of  distress,  she  spoke  a 
word,  but  so  gently  that  she  did  not  hear  it,  just 
felt  it  shape  itself  between  her  b'ps.  Nearer  and 
nearer  she  bent  to  the  picture  and  now  she  did 
hear  in  the  silence  her  own  faint,  veiled  voice  say 
the  word  which  one  cannot  pronounce  without 
bestowing  a  repeated  kiss  on  one's  lips  in  uttering 
it:  "Mamma!" 

She  turned  suddenly  round.  Something  like 
a  feeling  of  shame  came  over  her  for  talking  aloud 
when  there  was  nobody  in  the  room,  nothing  but 
a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the  piano. 

Anne  slid  down  from  the  couch  and  opened  the 
piano.  It  was  dusty.  She  stroked  a  key  with 
her  little  finger.  An  unexpected  sound  rose 
from  the  instrument,  a  warm  clear  sound  like  the 
flare  of  a  tinder  box.  It  died  down  suddenly. 
She  struck  another  key ;  another  flare.  She  drew 
her  hand  over  many  keys;  many  flares,  quite  a 
din.  She  put  her  head  back  and  stared  upwards 
as  if  she  saw  the  flaring  little  flames  of  the 
notes. 

Somebody  stroked  her  face.     Her  father. 

"Would  you  like  to  learn  to  play  the  piano?" 

She  did  not  answer.  It  was  without  learning 
that  she  would  have  liked  to  play  and  to  sing,  so 
beautifully  that  even  the  men  in  the  timber  yard 
would  lay  down  their  work. 

John  Hubert  became  thoughtful. 

"All  the  Jorgs  were  fond  of  music.  Music 
was  the  very  life  of  your  mother." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  49 

Gently  Anne  opened  her  blue  eyes  with  a 
green  glitter  in  them. 

"Yes,"  she  said  witk  determination,  "I  want 
to  learn." 

Next  day,  a  gentleman  of  solemn  appearance 
came  to  the  house;  his  name  was  Casimir  Szta- 
viarsky.  He  was  at  that  time  the  most  fashion- 
able dancing  and  music  master  in  town.  He 
wore  a  coal-black  wig,  he  walked  on  the  tip  of 
his  toes,  he  balanced  his  hips  and  received  six- 
pence per  hour.  He  mentioned  frequently  that 
he  was  a  descendant  of  Polish  kings.  When  he 
was  angry  he  spoke  Polish. 

After  her  lessons,  Anne  learned  many  things 
from  him.  Sztaviarsky  spoke  to  her  about 
Chopin,  the  citizens'  choir  in  Pest,  Mozart,  grand- 
father Jorg  who  played  the  'cello  well  and  played 
the  organ  on  Sundays  in  the  church  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan friars. 

The  little  girl  began  to  be  interested  in  her 
grandfather  Jorg  to  whom  she  had  not  hitherto 
paid  much  attention.  He  was  different  from 
the  Ulwings.  The  children  thought  him  funny 
and  often  looked  at  each  other  knowingly  behind 
his  back  while  he  was  rubbing  his  hands  and  bow- 
ing with  short  brisk  nods  to  the  customers  of  his 
bookshop. 

Anne  blushed  for  him.  She  did  not  like  to  see 
him  do  this  and  her  glance  fell  on  grandfather 
Ulwing.  He  did  not  bow  to  anybody. 

Ulrich  Jorg's  bookshop  was  at  the  corner  of 


50  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Snake  Street.  A  seat  was  fixed  in  the  wall  near 
the  entrance  in  front  of  which  an  apple  tree  grew 
in  the  middle  of  the  road.  The  passing  carriages 
drove  round  it  with  much  noise. 

Anne  thrust  her  head  in  at  the  door.  Ulwing 
the  builder  removed  his  wide-brimmed  grey 
beaver. 

The  perfume  of  the  apple-blossom  filled  the 
shop.  Grandfather  Jorg  came  smiling  to  meet 
them;  he  emerged  with  short  steps  from  behind 
a  bookcase  which,  reaching  up  to  the  ceiling,  di- 
vided the  shop  into  two  from  end  to  end.  The 
front  part  was  used  by  ordinary  customers.  Be- 
hind the  bookcase,  shielded  from  the  view  of  the 
street,  some  gentlemen  sat,  mostly  in  Magyar 
costumes,  on  a  sofa  near  a  tallow  candle  and  con- 
versed hurriedly,  continuously. 

They  were  more  numerous  than  usual.  A 
young  man,  wearing  a  dolman,  sat  in  the  middle 
on  the  edge  of  the  writing  table.  His  neck 
stretched  bare  from  his  soft  open  shirt  collar. 
His  hair  was  uncombed,  his  eyes  were  wonder- 
fully large  and  aflame. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Anne  realized  how 
beautiful  the  human  eye  could  be.  Then  she 
noticed,  however,  that  the  young  man's  worn-out 
boots  were  battering  the  brass  fittings  of  Grand- 
father Jorg's  writing  table  while  he  was  speaking 
and  that  his  disorderly  movements  upset  every- 
thing within  his  reach.  She  thought  him  want- 
ing in  respect.  So  she  returned  to  the  other  side 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  51 

of  the  bookcase  and  resumed  the  reading  of  the 
book  her  grandfather  had  chosen  for  her.  It  was 
about  a  Scotch  boy  called  Robinson  Crusoe. 

More  people  came  to  the  shop.  Nobody 
bought  a  book.  And  even  the  old  men  looked 
as  if  they  were  still  young. 

The  feverish,  clumsy  man  behind  the  bookcase 
went  on  talking  and  at  times  one  could  hear  the 
heels  of  his  boots  knock  against  the  brass  fittings. 
Anne  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  what  he  said. 
The  book  fascinated  her.  One  word,  however, 
did  reach  her  ears  several  times  from  behind. 
But  the  word  did  not  penetrate  her  intellect.  It 
just  remained  a  repeated  sound. 

In  the  middle  of  the  shop  stood  a  gentleman. 
He  had  a  bony  face  and  he  wore  a  beard  only 
under  his  chin.  And  from  the  pocket  of  his  tight 
breeches  a  beribboned  tobacco  pouch  dangled. 

The  man  next  to  him  urged  him  on.  "You 
can  speak  out,  we  are  among  ourselves." 

The  man  with  a  bony  face  showed  a  manu- 
script. "I  have  searched  in  vain  since  this  morn- 
ing. People  are  afraid  for  their  skins.  There 
is  not  a  printer  in  Pest  who  dares  set  up  this 
proclamation.' 

Ulrich  Jorg  leaned  over  the  paper.  His  bald 
head  reflected  the  light  and  the  wreath  of  yellow- 
ish white  hair  round  his  ear  moved  in  a  funny 
way. 

"This  is  not  a  proclamation,"  somebody 
whispered.  "This  means  revolution!" 


52  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Ulrich  Jorg  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"My  printing  works  will  see  this  through." 
He  said  this  so  quietly  and  simply,  that  Anne 
could  not  understand  why  all  these  gentlemen 
should  throng  suddenly  round  him.  But  when 
she  cast  her  eyes  on  him,  he  no  longer  looked 
funny.  His  small  eyes  glittered  under  the  white 
eyelashes  and  his  face  resembled  that  of  St.  Peter 
in  her  little  Bible. 

Two  boys  rushed  past  the  door.  With  shrill 
voices  they  shouted :  "Freedom !" 

Anne  recognised  the  word  she  had  heard  from 
behind  the  bookcase.  Mere  boys  clamoured  for 
it  too.  How  simple!  Everybody  wanted  the 
same  thing.  Freedom!  Somehow  it  seemed  to 
her  that  there  was  some  connection  between  that 
word  and  another.  Youth!  And  yet  another. 
Whatever  was  it?  She  thought  of  the  awkward 
youth's  feverish  eye. 

From  the  direction  of  the  Town  Hall  people 
came  running  down  the  street;  artisans,  women, 
students,  servants.  The  actors  of  the  German 
theatre  were  among  them  too.  Anne  recognised 
the  robber-knight  and  the  queen.  The  queen's 
petticoat  was  torn. 

"Hurray  for  the  freedom  of  the  press.  Down 
with  the  censor!" 

Ulwing  the  builder,  who  till  then  had  seemed 
indifferent,  nodded  emphatically.  He  thought 
of  the  censor  at  Buda,  then  he  could  not  help 
smiling  to  himself:  from  what  a  small  angle  does 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  53 

man  contemplate  the  world,  the  world  that  is  so 
wide! 

The  pavement  resounded  with  many  hurried 
steps.  More  people  came.  They  too  were  run- 
ning, gesticulating  wildly,  colliding  with  each 
other.  All  of  a  sudden,  a  voice  became  audible 
outside,  a  voice  like  that  of  spring,  penetrating 
the  air  irresistibly. 

Somebody  spoke. 

The  bookshop  became  silent.  The  men  rose. 
The  voice  came  to  fetch  them.  The  windows 
of  the  houses  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  were 
opened.  The  voice  penetrated  the  dwellings  of 
the  German  burghers.  It  filled  the  stuffy  rooms, 
the  mouldy  shops,  the  streets,  and  whatever  it 
touched  caught  fire.  This  voice  was  the  music 
of  a  conflagration. 

Christopher  Ulwing  went  to  the  door.  He 
stopped  at  the  threshold.  Behind  him  the  whole 
shop  began  to  move.  Men  thronged  beside  him 
into  the  street.  Ulrich  Jorg  hurried  with  short, 
fast  steps  side  by  side  with  the  big-headed  shop 
assistant.  All  ran.  The  builder  too,  unable  to 
resist,  began  to  run. 

From  the  street  he  shouted  back  to  Anne: 
"You  stay  there!" 

The  bookshop  had  become  empty  and  the  little 
girl  looked  anxiously  around ;  then,  as  if  listening 
to  music,  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  door- 
post. She  could  not  see  the  speaker,  he  was  far 
away.  Only  the  sound  of  his  voice  reached  her 


54  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

ear,  yet  she  felt  that  what  now  happened  was 
strangely  new  to  her.  A  delightful  shudder 
rippled  down  her  back.  The  Voice  made  her 
feel  giddy,  it  rocked  her,  called  her,  carried  her 
away.  She  did  not  resist  but  abandoned  herself 
to  it  and  little  Anne  Ulwing  was  unconsciously 
carried  away  by  the  great  Hungarian  spring 
which  had  now  appealed  to  her  for  the  first  time. 

When  the  invisible  voice  died  away,  the  crowd 
raised  a  shout.  A  student  began  to  sing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  in  front  of  the  shop.  All  at  once, 
the  song  was  taken  up  by  the  whole  street,  a  song 
which  Anne  was  to  hear  often  in  days  to  come. 
The  student  climbed  the  apple  tree  nimbly  and 
waved  his  hat  wildly.  His  face  was  aflame; 
the  branches  swayed  under  his  weight  and  the 
white  blossoms  covered  the  pavement. 

Anne  would  have  liked  to  wave  her  handker- 
chief. She  longed  to  sing  like  the  student. 
General,  infinite  happiness  was  floating  in  the 
air.  People  embraced  and  ran. 

"Freedom!" 

A  quaint  figure  approached  down  the  street. 
He  crawled  along  the  walls  with  careful,  hesitat- 
ing steps.  He  stopped  every  now  and  then  and 
looked  anxiously  around.  His  purple  tail-coat 
fluttered  ridiculously,  white  stockings  fell  in 
thick  folds  over  buckled  shoes. 

Anne  felt  embarrassed,  afraid.  She  had  never 
yet  seen  Uncle  Sebastian  like  this  in  the  street, 
in  Pest.  Involuntarily,  she  shrank  behind  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  55 

door.  "Perhaps  he  won't  see  me.  Perhaps  he 
will  walk  on.  .  .  ."  And  the  thought  of  the 
feverish  eyes,  and  the  word  she  had  connected 
with  youth.  .  .  .  And  the  voice.  .  .  .  Uncle 
Sebastian  was  so  old  and  so  far  away. 

Anne  cast  her  eyes  down  while  the  rusty  buck- 
les of  a  pair  of  clumsy  shoes  came  slowly  nearer 
and  nearer  on  the  pavement. 

The  student  in  the  tree  roared  with  laughter. 

"What  sort  of  scarecrow  is  this?  What  olden 
times  are  a-walking?" 

Anne  became  sad  and  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"He  is  mine!"  She  sobbed  in  despair  and 
opened  her  arms  towards  the  old  man. 

Uncle  Sebastian  had  noticed  nothing  of  all 
this.  He  sat  down  on  the  bench  in  front  of  the 
bookshop,  put  his  hat  on  the  ground  and  wiped 
his  forehead  for  a  long  time  with  his  enormous 
gaudy  handkerchief. 

"I  just  came  here  in  time.  What  an  upheav- 
al! What  are  we  coming  to!  What  will  be  the 
end  of  this?" 

Again  Anne  felt  a  wide  gulf  between  herself 
and  the  old  man,  and  she  moved  all  the  closer  up 
to  him  so  that  people  who  laughed  at  Uncle  Se- 
bastian might  know  that  they  belonged  together. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WIND  had  removed  the  vernal  glory 
of  the  apple  tree  in  front  of  the 
bookshop  in  Snake  Street.  Sum- 
mer passed  away  too. 

Anne  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  window 
pane.  A  sound  came  from  outside  as  if  a  drum 
were  being  beaten  underground.  The  heavy 
steps  of  the  new  national  guard  rang  rhythmi- 
cally along  the  ground.  The  house  heard  it  too 
and  echoed  it  from  its  porch. 

In  those  times  soldiers  were  frequently  seen 
from  the  window,  and  when  Mamsell  Tini  took 
Anne  to  the  school  of  the  English  nuns,  the  walls 
were  covered  with  posters.  Crowds  gathered  be- 
fore them.  People  stretched  their  necks  to  get 
a  glimpse.  Anne  too  would  have  liked  to  stop, 
but  not  for  anything  in  the  world  would  Mamsell 
Tini  let  her  do  so. 

"A  respectable  person  must  never  loiter  in  the 
streets." 

A  boy  stood  on  the  kerb  of  the  pavement. 

"What  is  there  on  those  posters?"  Anne  asked 
as  she  passed. 

"War  news.  .  .  ."  and  the  boy  began  to  whis- 
tle. An  old  woman  passed  on  the  opposite  cor- 

66 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  57 

ner.  She  was  wiping  her  eyes  on  the  corner  of 
her  apron. 

"War  news.  .  .  ."  Anne  stared  at  the  old 
lady  and  these  words  acquired  a  sad  significance 
in  her  mind. 

At  dinner  she  watched  her  grandfather  and 
father  attentively.  They  talked  of  business  and' 
in  between  they  were  perfectly  calm  and  ate  a 
hearty  meal. 

"Everybody  is  just  the  same  as  ever,"  she  re- 
flected. "Perhaps  the  war  news  is  not  true  after 
all."  Suddenly  all  this  was  forgotten.  Her 
father  just  mentioned  that  the  children  would 
take  dancing  lessons  every  Sunday  afternoon 
in  Geramb's  educational  institute. 

"It  is  a  smart  place,"  said  John  Hubert. 
"Baron  Szepesy's  young  ladies  go  there  and  Baj- 
moczy  the  Septemvir's  daughters."  He  pro- 
nounced the  name  "Bajmoczy"  slowly,  respect- 
fully, and  looked  round  to  see  the  effect  it  pro- 
duced on  his  audience. 

Next  Sunday,  Anne  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  dancing  school,  even  when  she  was  at  Mass. 
She  stood  up,  knelt  down,  but  it  meant  nothing 
to  her.  She  traced  with  her  finger  the  engraved 
inscription  on  the  pew:  "Ulwing  family."  And 
they  alone  were  allowed  to  sit  in  this  pew  though 
it  was  nearest  the  altar. 

Gal,  the  wine  merchant,  stood  there  under  the 
pulpit,  and  Mr.  Walter  the  wholesale  linen  mer- 
chant of  Idol  Street  had  no  pew.  Even  the 


58  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Hosszu  family  sat  further  back  than  they,  though 
they  owned  water  mills  and  the  millers  of  the 
Danube  bowed  to  them. 

Anne  classified  the  inhabitants  of  the  parish 
according  to  their  pews.  During  the  exhibition 
of  the  Host,  while  she  smote  her  chest  with  her 
little  fist,  she  decided  that  her  grandfather  ranked 
before  everybody  else. 

All  this  time,  Christopher  Ulwing  inclined  his 
head  and  prayed  devoutedly. 

When  Anne  looked  up  again,  she  saw  some- 
thing queer.  Though  turning  towards  the  altar, 
little  Christopher  was  looking  sideways.  She 
followed  his  eyes;  her  glance  fell  on  Sophie 
Hosszu.  Sophie  leaned  her  forehead  on  her 
clasped  hands.  Only  the  lovely  outline  of  her 
face  was  visible.  Over  her  half-closed  eyes 
her  long  black  eyelashes  lay  in  the  shade.  .  .  . 
Christopher,  however,  now  sat  stiffly,  with  down- 
cast eyes,  in  the  pew.  Anne  could  scarcely  re- 
frain from  laughing. 

Later  the  hours  seemed  to  get  longer  and  long- 
er and  it  appeared  as  if  that  afternoon  would 
never  come  to  an  end.  The  children  became 
fidgety.  The  maid  brought  some  leather  shoes 
from  the  wardrobe;  Anne  addressed  her  re- 
proachfully : 

"Oh,  Netti,  don't  you  know?  To-day  I  am 
to  wear  my  new  prunella  boots!" 

Her  apple-green  cashmere  frock  was  hanging 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  59 

from  the  window  bolts.  The  black  velvet  coat 
was  spread  on  the  piano.  Since  last  year  Anne 
had  occupied  her  mother's  former  room.  The 
nursery  had  become  the  boy's  sole  property. 
Christopher  too  was  standing  in  front  of  the  mir- 
ror. He  was  parting  his  fair,  white-glimmering 
hair  on  one  side ;  it  was  so  soft  it  looked  as  if  the 
wind  had  blown  it  sideways.  He  was  pleased 
with  himself  and  while  he  bent  his  soft  shirt  col- 
lar over  his  shoulders  he  started  whistling.  He 
never  forgot  a  melody  he  had  once  heard.  He 
whistled  as  sweetly  as  a  bird. 

The  rattle  of  wheels  echoed  under  the  porch. 
The  two  "pillar  men"  glanced  into  the  windows 
of  the  fast  receding  coach. 

In  Sebastian  Square,  in  front  of  Baroness 
Geramb's  educational  institute,  three  coaches 
were  waiting.  On  one  of  them  a  liveried  foot- 
man sat  beside  the  coachman.  This  filled  Chris- 
topher with  envy.  He  thought  that  it  would  be 
a  good  idea  to  bring  Florian,  too,  next  Sunday. 

"Mind  you  don't  forget  to  kiss  the  ladies' 
hands!"  said  John  Hubert  while  they  crossed  a 
murky  corridor.  Then  a  tall  white-glazed  door 
led  into  a  sombre  dark  room.  Crooked  tallow 
candles  lit  it  up  from  the  top  of  the  wardrobes. 
Their  mild  light  showed  Sztaviarsky,  hopping  on 
tiptoe  to  and  fro,  and  a  row  of  little  girls  in 
crinolines  and  boys  in  white  collars.  Between 
the  wings  of  another  door  and  in  the  adjoining 


60  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

room  ladies  and  gentlemen  sat  on  uncomfortable 
chairs.  Through  lorgnettes  on  long  handles, 
they  inspected  each  other's  children. 

Christopher  at  once  perceived  Sophie  Hosszu 
among  the  grown-up  people.  Though  Gabriel 
had  told  him  she  would  be  there,  it  gave  him  a 
shock. 

"Go  and  kiss  hands,"  whispered  John  Hubert. 
The  boy  leant  forward  with  such  zeal  that  he 
knocked  his  nose  into  the  ivory  hand  of  the  Bar- 
oness Geramb.  He  also  kissed  the  other  ladies' 
hands.  When  he  came  to  Sophie  he  stared  for 
a  moment  helplessly  at  the  young  girl.  Sophie 
snatched  her  hand  away  and  laughed. 

"But,  Sophie!"  said  Baroness  Geramb  in  her 
expiring  voice  and  the  ringlets  dangled  on  the 
side  of  her  face.  She  was  not  pleased  with  her 
former  pupil.  Christopher  tripped  over  a 
hooped  petticoat,  and  in  his  embarrassment  felt 
as  if  he  wanted  to  cry. 

In  the  other  room,  Sztaviarsky  held  the  two 
tails  of  his  alpaca  evening  suit  high  up  in  his 
hands.  He  was  showing  one  of  the  Bajmoczy 
girls  how  to  bow. 

"Demoiselle  Bertha,  pray,  pray,  attention," 
and  then  he  murmured  something  in  Polish. 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  door.  "Mrs. 
Septemvir"  Bajmoczy  went  to  her  daughter. 
Her  silk  dress  rustled  as  it  slid  along  the  floor. 
She  was  tall  and  corpulent;  her  head  was  bent 
backwards  and  she  always  looked  down  on  things. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  61 

This  irritated  Sztaviarsky  all  the  more.  He 
sucked  his  cheek  in  and  looked  round  in  search 
of  a  victim.  "Demoiselle  Ulwing,  show  us  how 
to  make  a  bow!" 

"But  I  don't  know  yet.  .  .  ."  Anne  said  this 
very  low,  and  had  a  feeling  as  if  the  floor  had 
caught  hold  of  her  heel.  She  could  only  advance 
slowly  on  tiptoe.  She  bent  her  head  sideways 
and  her  side  ringlets  touched  her  shoulders.  Her 
hand  clung  to  her  cashmere  petticoat. 

The  silence  was  interrupted  by  Sztaviarsky's 
voice : 

"One  .  .  .  Two  .  .  .  complimentum." 

Meanwhile  John  Hubert  sat  solemnly  on  a 
high,  uncomfortable  chair  and,  contrary  to  his 
habit,  kept  himself  erect  and  never  leaned  back 
once.  It  seemed  to  Anne  that  he  nodded  con- 
tentedly. Everybody  nodded.  How  good  ev- 
erybody was  to  her  .  .  .  and  she  started  to  go 
to  Bertha  Bajmoczy.  But  the  Pole  stopped  her 
with  a  sign.  The  lesson  continued. 

Studies  in  school  suffered  seriously  that  week. 
Twice  Christopher  was  given  impositions. 

The  Sundays  passed  ...  In  the  Geramb  edu- 
cational institute's  cold,  sombre  drawing  room 
the  children  were  already  learning  the  gavotte. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  a  lesson.  The 
crooked  tallow  candles  on  the  top  of  the  wardrobe 
had  burnt  nearly  to  the  end.  Sztaviarsky  was 
muttering  Polish.  Bertha  Bajmoczy,  wherever 
she  stepped,  tripped  over  her  own  foot.  All  of 


62  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

a  sudden,  she  began  to  weep.  The  young  Baron- 
ess Szepesy  ran  to  her;  Martha  Illey  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  and  laughed  wickedly; 
Anne  had  to  laugh  too.  The  boys  roared. 

"Mes  enfants.  .  .  .  Silence!"  Baroness  Ge- 
ramb's  voice  was  more  expiring  than  ever  and 
her  face  was  stern. 

Silence  was  restored.  Bertha  wiped  her  eyes 
furiously.  She  happened  to  look  at  Anne. 

"Since  she  came  here  everything  has  gone 
wrong." 

Clemence  Szepesy  nodded  and  pinched  her 
sharp  nose.  Anne  paid  no  attention  to  this. 
She  looked  at  her  father  in  surprise.  He  stood 
beside  Sophie  Hosszu,  leaning  against  the  high, 
white  panel  of  the  door.  While  he  talked,  he 
kept  one  of  his  hands  stuck  in  his  waistcoat,  which 
was  adorned  with  many  tiny  flowers.  With  the 
other  he  now  and  then  smoothed  his  thick  fair 
hair  back  from  his  brow  which  it  bordered  in  a 
graceful  curve.  He  smiled.  Until  now  Anne 
had  never  noticed  that  her  father  was  still  a 
young  man. 

The  dancing  lesson  was  over.  Walking  down 
the  poorly  lit  staircase,  she  heard  more  talk  be- 
hind her.  Just  where  the  curving  staircase 
turned,  she  was  hidden  from  those  coming  from 
above. 

"Her  grandfather  was  an  ordinary  carpenter," 
said  Clemence  Szepesy. 

"Par  e.remple,  what  is  that,  a  carpenter?" 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  63 

"It's  the  sort  of  fellow,"  came  the  voice  from 
above,  "who  worked  last  spring  on  the  beams  of 
our  attics." 

"Really  such  people  ought  not  to  be  admitted 
into  gentlefolks'  society."  It  was  Bertha's 
voice. 

At  first,  Anne  did  not  realise  whom  they  were 
discussing — only  later.  How  dared  they  speak 
like  that  of  her  grandfather!  Of  Ulwing,  the 
master  builder !  Of  him  who  sat  in  the  first  pew 
in  church  and  before  whom  even  the  aldermen 
stood  bare-headed! 

She  turned  round  sharply.  Those  behind 
found  themselves  suddenly  face  to  face  with  her. 
They  slunk  away  to  the  balustrade.  Anne  gazed 
at  them  bewildered,  then  her  countenance  became 
sad  and  scared.  She  had  just  discovered  some- 
thing vile  and  dangerous  that  had  been  hitherto 
concealed  from  her  by  those  she  loved.  She  was 
taught  for  the  first  time  in  her  short  life  that  peo- 
ple could  be  wicked;  she  had  always  thought 
that  everybody  was  kind.  Her  soul  had  till  then 
gone  out  with  open  arms  to  all  human  beings 
without  discrimination;  now  it  felt  itself  re- 
buffed. 

On  the  drive  home  she  sat  silently  in  the  coach. 
Her  father  spoke  of  the  Septemvir  Bajmoczy 
and  his  family.  He  pronounced  the  name  re- 
spectfully, with  unction.  This  irritated  Anne  at 
first.  But  her  father's  and  her  brother's  content 
pained  her  only  for  an  instant.  She  set  her  teeth 


64  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

and  decided  that  she  would  not  tell  them  what 
had  happened  on  the  staircase.  She  felt  sorry 
for  them,  more  so  than  for  herself,  and  for  the 
sake  of  their  happiness  and  peace  of  mind  she 
charitably  burdened  her  maiden  soul  with  the 
heavy  weight  of  her  first  secret. 


CHAPTER  V 

SUNDAY  had  come  round  again.  Chris- 
topher went  alone  with  his  father  to  the 
dancing  lesson. 

"I  should  like  to  stay  at  home,"  said 
Anne,  in  her  timid,  veiled  voice.  She  looked  so 
imploring  that  they  let  her  have  her  way. 

At  the  usual  hour  in  the  afternoon  the  bell 
sounded  at  the  gate.  Uncle  Sebastian  stood  be- 
tween its  pillars. 

Anne  ran  to  meet  him.  From  his  writing 
table  the  builder  nodded  his  head. 

"Sit  down."  He  continued  to  write  close 
small  numbers  into  a  linen-bound  book.  He  did 
not  put  his  pen  down  till  Netti  appeared  with 
coffee  on  the  parrot-painted  tray.  The  steam 
of  the  milkcan  passed  yellow  through  the  light 
of  the  candle.  The  smell  of  coffee  penetrated 
the  room.  The  two  old  men  now  talked  of  days 
gone  by. 

"Things  were  better  then,"  growled  Uncle  Se- 
bastian every  now  and  then,  without  ever  at- 
tempting to  justify  his  statement.  Meanwhile 
he  dipped  big  pieces  of  white  bread  into  his 
coffee.  He  brushed  the  crumbs  into  his  hand 
and  put  them  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  for  the 
birds. 

65 


66  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

It  struck  Anne  that  her  grandfather  never 
spoke  to  Uncle  Sebastian  as  he  spoke  to  adults, 
but  rather  in  the  way  he  had  vith  her  and  Chris- 
topher. At  first  he  seemed  indulgent,  later  he 
became  impatient. 

"So  it  was  better  then,  was  it?"  Arid  he  told 
the  tale  of  some  noble  gentleman  who  had  had 
one  of  his  serfs  thrashed  half-dead  because  he 
dared  to  pick  flowers  under  the  castle  window 
for  his  bride.  The  girl  was  beautiful.  The  gen- 
tleman looked  at  her  and  sent  the  serf  to  the  army 
against  Buonaparte  as  a  grenadier — for  life. 

"Nowadays,  the  noble  gentlemen  go  them- 
selves to  war,  and  in  our  parts  they  even  share 
their  land  with  their  former  serfs.  Do  you  un- 
derstand, Sebastian?  Without  compulsion,  of 
their  own  free  will." 

"Are  we  noble  too?"  asked  Anne  from  her  cor- 
ner of  the  check-covered  couch. 

The  two  old  men  looked  at  each  other.  They 
burst  into  a  good-humoured  laugh.  The  builder 
rose  and  took  a  much-worn  booklet  out  of  the 
writing  desk.  On  the  binding  of  the  book  a 
double-headed  eagle  held  the  arms  of  Hungary 
between  its  claws. 

"This  is  my  patent  of  nobility.  I  have  sold 
neither  myself  nor  anybody  else  for  it." 

Anne  opened  the  book  and  spelt  out  slowly 
the  old-fashioned  writing: 

"Pozsony.  Anno  Domini  1797.  .  .  .  Chris- 
topher Ulwing.  Sixteen  years  old.  Stature: 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  67 

tall.  Face:  long.  Hair:  fair.  Eyes:  blue. 
Occupation:  civil  carpenter." 

Anne  blushed. 

"That  was  I,"  and  the  master  builder  put  his 
hand  on  the  passport.  Then,  with  quaint  satis- 
faction, he  looked  round  the  room  as  if  exhibiting 
with  his  eyes  the  comfort  he  had  earned  by  his 
labour.  For  the  first  time  Anne  understood  this 
look  which  she  had  observed  on  her  grandfather's 
face  on  countless  occasions. 

"I  am  a  free  citizen,"  said  Christopher  Ulwing. 
The  words  embellished,  gave  power  to  his  sharp, 
metallic  voice.  Unconsciously,  Anne  imitated 
with  her  small  head  the  old  man's  gesture. 

The  thoughts  of  Sebastian  Ulwing  moved  less 
quickly.  They  stuck  at  the  passport. 

"Do  you  remember?  .  .  ."  These  words  car- 
ried the  old  men  beyond  the  years.  They  talked 
of  the  mail-coach  which  had  overturned  at  the 
gate  of  Hatvan.  Of  the  mounted  courier  from 
Vienna,  how  they  made  him  drunk  at  the  Three 
Roses  Inn.  The  gunsmith,  the  chirurgeon  and 
other  powerful  artisans  held  him  down  while  the 
bell-founder  cut  his  pig-tail  off  though  there  was 
a  wire  inside  to  curl  it  up  on  his  back." 

The  builder  got  tired  of  this  subject.  He 
became  serious. 

"It  was  all  pig-tails  then.  People  wore  them 
in  their  very  brains.  Withal,  times  are  better 
now.  .  .  ." 

Sebastian  Ulwing  shook  his  head  obstinately. 


68  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Suddenly  his  face  lit  up,  as  if  he  had  found  the 
reason  for  all  his  statements. 

"We  were  young  then."  He"  uttered  this 
modestly  and  smiled.  "My  head  turns  when  I 
remember  your  putting  shingles  on  the  roof  of 
the  parish  church.  You  sat  on  the  crest-beam 
and  dangled  your  feet  towards  the  Danube. 
Wouldn't  you  get  giddy  now  if  you  were  sent 
there!" 

Anne,  immobile,  watched  her  grandfather's 
hand  lying  near  her  on  the  table.  And  as  if  she 
wanted  to  atone  for  the  injury  inflicted  by  the 
strange  girls,  she  bent  over  and  kissed  it. 

"What's  that?"  Christopher  Ulwing  with- 
drew his  hand  absent-mindedly. 

Anne  cast  her  eyes  down,  for  she  felt  as  if  she 
had  exhibited  a  feeling  the  others  could  not  un- 
derstand. .  .  .  Then  she  slipped  unobserved 
out  of  the  room.  ...  In  the  sunshine  room  a 
volume  lay  on  the  music  chest.  On  the  green 
marbled  cover  were  printed  the  words  "Nursery 
Songs,"  surrounded  by  a  wreath.  On  the  first 
page  a  faded  inscription,  Christina  Jorg,  Anno 
1822.  Anne  sat  down  to  the  piano.  Her  small 
fingers  erred  for  some  time  hesitatingly  over  the 
keys.  Then  she  began  to  sing  sweetly  one  of 
the  songs: 

Two  prentice  lads  once  wandered 
To  strange  lands,  far  away.  .  .  . 

Shy,   untrained,    the    little    song    rose.     Her 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  69 

voice,  veiled  when  she  talked,  rang  out  clear  when 
she  was  singing.  She  herself  was  struck  by  this 
difference  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  till  this 
moment  she  had  been  mute  all  her  life.  She 
felt  elated  by  the  discovery  of  the  power 
to  express  herself  without  risking  the  mock- 
ing derision  of  the  others;  now  her  grand- 
father would  not  draw  his  hand  away  from 
her. 

Two  prentice  lads  once  wandered, 
To  strange  lands,  far  away.  .  .  . 

Uncle  Sebastian  rose  from  his  armchair  and 
carefully  opened  the  dining-room  door.  For  a 
long  time,  the  two  old  men  listened.  .  .  . 

Christopher  came  home  from  the  dancing 
class.  He  rushed  to  Anne  noisily.  His  eyes 
gleamed  with  boyish  delight.  A  faded  flower 
was  stuck  in  his  buttonhole.  His  hand  went 
for  ever  up  to  the  flower.  He  talked  and 
talked,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  piano.  Anne 
looked  at  him  surprised;  she  found  him  hand- 
some. Half  his  face  was  hidden  by  the  curls 
of  his  girlish  hair.  His  upper  lip  was  drawn 
up  slightly  by  the  upward  bent  of  his  small  nose. 
This  gave  him  a  charming,  startled  expression, 
not  to  be  found  in  any  other  member  of  the  Ul- 
wing  family.  Instinctively,  Anne  looked  at  her 
mother's  portrait.  .  .  . 

In  the  evening  when  bedtime  came,  Chris- 
topher searched  impatiently  for  his  prayer  book. 


70  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

He  could  not  find  it.  He  hid  the  flower  under 
his  pillow. 

For  a  long  time,  he  lay  with  open  eyes  in  the 
dark.  Once  he  whispered  to  himself:  "Little 
Chris,  I  hope  to  see  you  again  soon,"  and  in  do- 
ing so  he  tried  to  imitate  Sophie's  intonation. 
Then  he  drew  his  hand  over  his  head  slowly, 
gently,  just  as  Sophie  had  done  while  speaking 
to  his  father. 

He  went  into  a  peaceful  rapture.  He  re- 
peated the  stroking,  the  words  "Little  Chris.  . .  ." 
He  repeated  it  often,  so  often  that  its  charm  wore 
off.  It  was  his  own  voice  he  heard  now,  his 
own  hand  he  felt.  They  ceased  to  cause  a  pleas- 
ant tremor;  tired  out,  he  went  to  sleep  over 
Sophie's  flower. 

When  Ulwing  the  builder  went  next  morning 
into  the  dining-room  it  was  still  practically  dark. 
He  always  got  up  very  early  and  liked  to  take 
his  breakfast  alone.  A  candle  burned  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  table  and  the  flickering  of  its  flame 
danced  over  the  china  and  was  reflected  in  the 
mirror  of  the  plate  chest.  The  shadows  of  the 
chair-backs  were  cast  high  up  on  the  walls. 

Christopher  Ulwing  read  the  paper  rapidly. 

"Nonsense,"  he  thought.  "Send  an  Imperial 
Commissioner  with  full  powers  from  Vienna? 
Why  should  they?"  There  was  no  other  news 
besides  that  in  the  newspaper,  crowded  though 
it  was  with  small  print.  As  if  the  censor  were 
at  work  again. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  71 

He  carried  the  candle  in  his  hand  into  the  office. 
A  big  batch  of  papers  lay  on  the  table.  John 
Hubert's  regular,  careful  handwriting  was  visible 
on  all  of  them.  The  builder  bent  over  his  work, 
his  pen  scratched  spasmodically. 

Facing  him,  the  coloured  map  of  Pest-Buda  in 
its  gilt  frame  became  lighter  and  lighter.  The 
whitewashed  wall  of  the  room  was  covered  with 
plans.  A  couch  stood  near  the  stove  and  this 
was  all  covered  with  papers. 

Steps  clattered  outside  in  the  silent  morning. 
Occasionally  the  shadow  of  a  passing  head  fell 
on  the  low  window  and  then  small  round  clouds 
ran  over  the  paper  under  Christopher  Ulwing's 
pen.  Others  came  and  went.  Time  passed.  All 
of  a  sudden  many  furious  steps  began  running 
towards  the  Danube.  The  blades  of  straight- 
ened scythes  sparkled  in  the  sun. 

The  servants  ran  to  the  gate. 

"What  has  happened?" 

A  voice  answered  back : 

"They  have  hanged  the  Imperial  Commissioner 
on  a  lamp  post!" 

"No — they  have  torn  him  to  pieces.  .  .  ." 

"They  stabbed  him  on  the  boat-bridge." 

"Is  he  dead?"  asked  a  late-comer. 

The  builder  put  his  pen  down.  He  stared 
at  the  window  as  if  an  awful  face  were  grinning 
frightfully  at  him.  "It  has  been  coming  for 
months.  Now  it  has  happened.  ..."  Without 
any  reason  he  picked  up  his  writings  and  laid 


72  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

them  down  again.  He  would  have  to  get  ac- 
customed to  this  too.  His  crooked  chin  disap- 
peared stiffly  in  the  fold  of  hiS  open  collar  and 
he  resumed  the  addition  of  the  numbers  which 
aligned  themselves  in  a  long  column  on  the  paper. 
Outside  they  sang  somewhere  the  song  Anne 
had  heard  for  the  first  time  from  Grandfather 
Jorg's  shop.  In  the  kitchen  Netti  was  beating 
cream  to  its  rhythm.  And  in  the  evening,  just 
as  on  any  other  day,  the  lamps  on  the  boat-bridge 
were  lit,  not  excepting  the  one  on  which  a  man 
had  died  that  day.  Its  light  was  just  as  calm  as 
the  other's.  The  streets  spoke  no  more  of  what 
had  happened.  In  the  darkness  the  Danube 
washed  the  city's  bloody  hand. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  Saturday  a  letter  came  from  Baroness 
Geramb.  There  would  be  no  more 
dancing  classes. 

All  the  light  seemed  to  go  from  Chris- 
topher's eyes. 

"But  why?"  said  he,  and  hung  his  head  sadly. 

"Dancing  is  unbecoming  when  there  is  a  war 
on." 

"So  it  is  true?  The  war  has  come,"  thought 
Anne,  but  still  it  seemed  to  her  unreal,  distant. 
Just  as  if  one  had  read  about  it  in  a  book.  A 
book  whose  one-page  chapters  were  stuck  up 
every  morning  on  the  walls  of  the  houses. 

It  was  after  Christmas.  The  Danube  was 
invisible.  A  dense,  sticky  fog  moved  on  the 
window  panes.  Christopher  ran  out  shivering 
into  the  dark  morning.  As  usual,  he  was  late; 
he  had  to  leave  his  breakfast  and  eat  his  bread 
and  butter  in  the  street.  He  had  no  idea  of 
his  lesson.  Behind  him  Florian  carried  a  lantern. 
On  winter  mornings  he  always  lit  the  boy's  way 
till  he  reached  the  paved  streets. 

On  the  pavement  of  the  inner  town  a  bandy- 
legged old  man  got  in  front  of  Christopher.  On 
one  arm  he  had  a  large  bundle  of  grimy  papers 
while  a  pot  of  glue  dangled  from  the  other.  Peo- 

73 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 


pie  in  silent  crowds  waited  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets  for  him;  when  they  had  read  the  fresh 
posters  they  walked  away  silent, "dejected. 

"What  is  happening?  What  do  they  want 
with  us  ?"  they  asked. 

People  began  to  understand  the  grim  realities 
of  war;  what  was  happening  now  roused  their 
understanding.  They  thronged  in  front  of  the 
money-changers'  shops.  Soldiers'  swords  rattled 
on  the  pavement.  Everybody  hurried  as  if  he 
had  some  urgent  business  to  settle  before  night- 
fall. 

Anne  was  at  her  music  lesson  when  a  huge 
black  and  yellow  flag  was  hoisted  on  a  flagstaff 
on  the  bastions  of  Buda.  In  those  times,  flags 
changed  frequently. 

"Freedom  is  dead,"  said  Sztaviarsky  and 
cursed  in  Polish. 

"Freedom!"  Anne  thought  of  the  two  fever- 
ish eyes.  So  it  was  for  freedom's  sake  that  there 
was  a  war?  She  now  looked  angrily  on  the 
Croatian  soldiers  whom  the  Imperial  officers  had 
quartered  on  them.  The  red-faced  sergeant  was 
eating  a  raw  onion  in  the  middle  of  the  court- 
yard. The  soldiers,  like  clumsy  big  children, 
were  throwing  snowballs.  They  trod  on  the 
shrubs,  made  havoc  of  everything.  They  made 
a  snow-man  in  front  of  the  pump  and  covered  the 
head  with  a  red  cap  like  the  one  worn  by  Hun- 
garian soldiers;  then  they  riddled  it  with  bul- 
lets. . 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  75 

The  snow-man  had  melted  away.  Slowly  the 
lilac  bushes  in  the  garden  began  to  sproir*  The 
Croatians  were  washing  their  dirty  linen  near  the 
pump.  They  stood  half -naked  near  the  troughs. 
The  wind  blew  soapsuds  against  their  hairy 
chests. 

All  of  a  sudden  an  unusual  bugle  call  was 
heard;  it  sounded  like  a  cry  of  distress.  Anne 
ran  to  the  window.  Soldiers  were  running  in 
front  of  the  house.  In  the  courtyard  the  Cro- 
atians were  snatching  their  shirts  from  the 
trough  and  putting  them  on,  all  soaking.  They 
rode  off  after  the  rest  and  did  not  come  back 
again. 

A  few  days  later,  Anne  dreamed  at  night  that 
there  was  a  thunderstorm.  Towards  morning 
there  was  a  sound  in  the  room  as  if  peas  by  the 
handful  were  being  thrown  against  the  window 
panes — many,  many  peas.  Later,  as  if  some  in- 
visible bodies  were  precipitated  through  the  air, 
every  window  of  the  house  was  set  a-rattling. 

"Put  up  the  wooden  shutters!"  shouted  the 
builder  from  the  porch. 

Christopher  came  breathlessly  up  the  stairs. 
"School  is  closed!"  His  pocket  bulged  with 
barley  sugar  and  he  was  stuffing  it  into  his  mouth, 
two  pieces  at  a  time. 

John  Hubert,  who  had  run  to  school  for  Chris- 
topher, arrived  behind  him.  His  lovely,  well- 
groomed  hair  was  hanging  over  his  forehead  and 
the  correct  necktie  had  slipped  to  one  side  of  his 


76  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

collar.  Gasping  he  called  Florian  and  had  the 
big  gate  locked  behind  him. 

A  candle  was  burning  in  the  master  builder's 
room,  deprived  of  daylight  by  the  shutters.  Con- 
trary to  his  habit,  John  Hubert,  without  wait- 
ing this  time  to  have  a  seat  offered  to  him,  sank 
limply  into  an  armchair. 

"Thank  goodness  you  are  all  here,"  he  said, 
making  a  caressing  movement  with  his  hand  in 
the  air.  "I  came  along  the  shores  of  the  Dan- 
ube," he  continued  hoarsely.  "There  were 
crowds  of  people  and  they  said  that  the  shells 
could  not  reach  across  the  river.  People  from 
the  shore  sat  about  on  stones.  One  was  eating 
bacon.  He  ate  quite  calmly  and  suddenly  he 
was  without  a  head.  For  a  time  the  corpse 
remained  seated,  and  everything  was  covered  with 
blood.  .  .  ."  Horrified,  he  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hand. 

"So  it  was  a  shell  that  fell  into  the  confec- 
tioner's shop  in  Little  Bridge  Street?"  said  Chris- 
topher, stuffing  barley  sugar  into  his  mouth. 
"The  pavement  was  all  covered  with  sweets  as 
if  the  shop  had  been  turned  inside  out.  The 
whole  school  filled  its  pockets  for  nothing." 

The  builder  smiled.  Behind  the  barred  gates 
life  continued.  John  Hubert  put  his  necktie 
straight  and  sometimes  in  the  course  of  the  day 
forgot  completely  what  he  had  seen.  When  he 
sat  down  to  meals,  however,  he  became  pale. 
He  pushed  his  plate  aside. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  77 

From  time  to  time,  the  window  panes  rattled. 
Woeful  distant  shrieks  flew  over  the  roofs.  They 
were  followed  by  the  anguish  of  numb  expect- 
ancy. People  counted.  The  silence  became 
crystalline  and  quivered  in  the  air. 

"The  shell  has  not  burst!"  They  counted 
again,  in  helpless  animal  fear.  Whose  turn 
would  it  be  next?  On  the  banks  of  the  Danube 
a  stricken  house  howled  out.  Clouds  of  dust 
burst  high  up  into  the  air.  The  sky  became  red, 
the  colour  of  bleeding  flesh. 

The  wind  blew  a  wave  of  hot  air,  heralding 
disaster,  into  the  courtyard  of  Ulwing  the 
builder.  Behind  the  locked  gate  nobody  knew 
which  neighbouring  house  was  expiring  in  a  last 
hot  breath. 

The  Fiigers  hid  in  the  cellar.  John  Hubert 
and  the  children  had  moved  into  the  office,  situ- 
ated in  the  inner  courtyard.  The  first  floor  be- 
came empty,  except  for  Christopher  Ulwing  who 
remained  in  his  bedroom,  the  single  window  of 
which  opened  into  the  deserted  timber  yard. 

"The  house  is  strong,"  said  the  builder  to  Mrs. 
Fiiger  through  the  cellar  window.  "I  built  the 
walls  well." 

A  furious  crack  came  from  the  gate  as  if  it 
had  been  flicked  by  a  wet  towel  of  gigantic  dimen- 
sions. The  windows  broke  in  a  clatter.  The 
house  shook  to  its  foundations. 

With  frightened  lamentations,  people  rushed 
out  of  the  cellar.  Little  Christopher's  snow- 


78  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

white  lips  became  distorted.  The  builder 
frowned  as  he  used  to  do  when  contradicted  by 
some  fool.  He  went  with  lon^  steps  to  the  gate. 

"No,  no,"  shrieked  Christopher,  and  began  to 
sob  spasmodically.  But  old  Ulwing  listened  to 
no  one.  He  kicked  the  side  door  open.  One 
of  the  caryatids  was  without  an  arm.  Under 
him  lay  a  heap  of  debris  of  crumbled  white- 
wash and  a  huge  hole  gaped  from  the  wall. 
The  shell  had  not  exploded;  it  had  stuck  in  the 
brickwork.  The  builder  buttoned  his  coat  up  so 
as  to  be  less  of  a  target  and  went  to  the  front 
of  the  house.  He  cast  his  eyes  upwards.  He 
contemplated  the  wrecked  windows. 

Foreign  enemies  had  hurt  his  house  in  the 
name  of  their  Emperor.  He  turned  quickly  to- 
wards the  Danube.  The  bridge  of  boats  was 
aflame.  His  bridge!  He  glanced  at  poor  little 
Buda,  from  the  heart  of  which  the  sister  town, 
defenceless  Pest,  was  shot  to  death.  The  town 
and  Christopher  Ulwing  had  been  small  and  poor 
together;  they  had  risen  together,  they  had  be- 
come rich,  and  now  they  were  wounded  together. 

He  began  to  curse  as  he  used  to  do  when  he 
was  a  journeyman  carpenter. 

Around  him,  there  was  no  sign  of  life.  Noth- 
ing moved  in  the  streets.  Closed  shops.  Bolted 
doors.  The  town  was  a  great  execution  ground. 
Like  men  under  sentence  of  death,  the  houses 
held  their  breath  and  were  as  much  abandoned 
in  their  misfortunes  as  human  destinies.  Now 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  79 

every  house  lived  only  for  itself,  died  only  for 
itself.  The  glare  of  the  burning  roofs  was  re- 
flected in  different  windows.  Sticky  smoke 
crawled  along  the  walls.  The  bells  of  a  church 
near  the  river  tolled. 

Rage  and  pain  brought  tears  to  Christopher 
Ulwing's  eyes  while  he  glanced  over  the  grimy, 
falling  houses.  How  many  were  his  work!  He 
loved  them  all.  He  pitied  them,  pitied  him- 
self. .  .  . 

But  this  lasted  only  for  a  second.  He  clenched 
his  fist  as  if  to  restrain  his  over-flowing  energy. 
He  would  be  in  need  of  it!  The  muscles  of  his 
arm  became  convulsed  and  he  felt  these  convul- 
sions reflected  in  his  brain.  If  necessary,  he 
would  start  afresh  from  the  very  beginning. 
There  was  still  time.  There  was  still  a  long 
life  before  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DAYS  passed  by.  The  bombardment 
ceased.  Frightened  shapes  emerged 
from  the  cellars.  Shrinking  against 
the  walls,  they  stared  at  the  conflagra- 
tion and  when  they  had  to  cross  a  street  they 
rushed  to  the  nearest  shelter. 

The  town  waited  with  bated  breath.  In  Ul- 
wing's  house,  anxiety  became  oppressive. 

Young  Christopher  did  not  get  out  of  bed 
for  a  whole  week.  Sickly  fright  left  its  impres- 
sion on  his  face.  In  daytime  he  lay  speechless 
in  a  corner  of  the  office.  Fear  prevented  him 
from  sleeping  at  night;  and  then  he  would  slink 
to  the  windows. 

The  black  chestnut  trees  stood  gravely  in  the 
back  garden.  Now  and  then  a  distant  flaring 
light  would  crown  their  summits  with  red.  Their 
leaves,  like  flattened  bleeding  fingers,  moved  to- 
wards the  sky.  Between  the  bushes,  something 
began  to  move.  The  pump  handle  creaked.  A 
stable  lantern  appeared  on  the  ground;  in  its 
light  stood  men  carrying  water  to  the  attics. 
The  builder  was  there  too,  working  the  pump 
handle  in  his  shirt  sleeves;  he  was  relieved  oc- 
casionally by  John  Hubert,  who,  however,  wore 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  81 

a  smart  coat  and  white  collar  which  shone  in  the 
dark.  Then  all  went  away  to  rest.  The  court- 
yard became  empty. 

Christopher  was  again  afraid.  He  grasped 
his  neck.  He  felt  as  if  some  fine  strings  were 
quivering  in  it;  this  had  happened  frequently 
since  the  great  clap  had  dealt  the  house  a  blow. 
In  his  brain  the  vision  of  that  incident  cropped 
up  incessantly.  He  wanted  to  push  it  away  but 
something  reached  into  his  brain  and  pulled  it 
back. 

He  would  have  liked  to  go  to  Anne  to  tell 
her  all  about  it.  But  would  she  understand  ?  He 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  being  laughed  at.  He 
threw  himself  on  his  bed  and  pressed  his  head 
between  his  two  hands.  Why  could  he  not  be 
like  the  others?  Why  had  he  to  think  forever 
of  things  that  the  others  could  not  understand? 

In  the  next  room,  Anne  lay  sleepless  too. 
Uncle  Sebastian,  living  up  there  in  the  castle, 
was  never  out  of  her  mind  since  she  had  had 
a  glimpse  of  the  spire  of  Our  Lady's  church 
through  the  side  door,  opened  during  the  bom- 
bardment. The  stairs  felt  cold  under  her  feet 
and  the  door-handles  creaked  loudly  through  the 
silent  house.  Crossing  the  dining-room,  she  sank 
into  a  chair.  She  thought  with  terror  of  her 
grandfather.  If  he  had  heard  it?  He  would 
never  let  her  do  it,  yet,  however  much  she  was 
afraid,  however  much  she  trembled,  it  had  to  be 
done. 


82  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

She  reached  the  piano.  She  listened  again, 
lit  the  candle,  but  dared  not  look  round.  Her 
teeth  chattered  pitifully  while  she  opened  the 
shutter.  The  window  was  broken.  What  if  the 
wind  blew  the  candle  out?  But  the  May  night 
was  deep  and  calm. 

Anne  felt  in  her  arm  a  reminiscence  of  the 
old  movement  with  which  as  a  child  she  used 
to  wave  to  Uncle  Sebastian  across  the  Danube. 
She  waved  her  hand  and  closed  the  shutter  be- 
hind the  illuminated  window. 

Outside  the  window  the.  light  of  the  candle 
spread  yellow  into  the  night  as  if  attempting  to 
go  across  the  river  on  the  errand  on  which  it  had 
been  sent. 

In  the  mellow,  shapeless  darkness  the  castle 
formed  a  rigid  compact  shadow.  No  lamps 
burned  in  its  steep  streets.  The  houses  were 
mute  and  fearful. 

For  days  Sebastian  Ulwing  had  not  emerged 
from  his  shop.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  knew  of 
nothing.  He  lived  on  bread  and  read  Demokri- 
tos.  Occasionally  the  gleam  of  torches  came 
through  the  cracks  in  his  door.  Their  rigid 
beam  made  the  round  of  the  shop  and  then  ran 
out  again.  The  heavy  steps  of  soldiers  re- 
sounded in  the  street.  Sometimes  the  guns 
spoke  and  the  house  shook. 

On  that  evening  everything  was  in  expectant 
silence.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock.  All  of  a  sud- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  83 

den  it  seemed  to  Sebastian  Ulwing  that  there 
had  been  a  knock  at  his  door. 

What  happened?  His  heart  began  to  beat 
anxiously  and  he  thought  of  the  Ulwing's  house. 
He  could  not  endure  the  doubt,  took  his  hat,  but 
turned  back  at  the  threshold  and,  as  he  had  done 
every  evening,  he  walked  again  all  over  the  shop. 
He  wound  up  all  the  clocks,  looking  at  them  as 
if  he  were  giving  them  food.  Then,  with  his 
shaky  helpless  steps,  he  crawled  out  into  the 
street. 

May  was  all  over  the  deserted  castle.  The 
clockmaker  began  to  hurry.  He  raised  his  hat 
when  he  passed  the  church  of  Our  Lady.  He 
turned  towards  the  Fisherman's  bastion. 

Beyond  the  wall,  down  below,  the  shore  of  Pest 
was  black. 

Sebastian  Ulwing  forced  his  eyes  to  find  the 
direction  of  the  Ulwing's  house.  He  exclaimed 
softly.  In  the  long  row  on  the  dark  shore  one 
window  was  lit.  ...  He  knew  it  was  for  him. 
His  old  heart  warmed  with  gratitude. 

Thoughtlessly,  he  leaned  down  and  swept  the 
rubbish  together  that  lay  about  his  feet.  He 
piled  it  up  on  the  wall  of  the  bastion ;  then  ten- 
derly, with  great  care,  he  tore  the  title  page  from 
his  "Demokritos,  or  a  Laughing  Philosopher." 
He  took  a  match.  He  wanted  to  thank  Anne 
for  the  signal.  The  paper  flared  up,  the  rub- 
bish caught  fire  and  the  flame  jumped  up  with 
a  shining  light. 


84  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Just  then,  the  clockmaker  felt  himself  kicked 
on  the  back.  He  heard  a  shot  and  fell  on  his 
knees  near  the  bastion.  He  grazed  his  chin 
against  the  wall  Annoyed,  he  put  his  hand  up 
to  it.  He  felt  sick.  It  occurred  then  to  him 
to  look  behind.  Nobody  was  near.  The  win- 
dow of  one  house  rattled.  Under  the  church  a 
light  Austrian  uniform  disappeared  in  the  dark. 

When  nothing  more  was  audible,  Sebastian 
Ulwing  held  on  to  the  stones  and  got  up.  In 
front  of  the  church  he  raised  his  hat  again.  Some- 
how, he  could  not  put  it  back  on  his  head:  it 
dropped  out  of  his  hand.  He  looked  sadly  after 
it  but  did  not  bend  down  for  it.  For  an  instant 
he  leaned  against  the  monument  of  the  Holy 
Trinity.  As  if  it  were  a  nail  which  had  pegged 
down  the  square  in  the  middle,  only  the  monu- 
ment remained  steady;  the  rest  turned  round  him 
slowly,  heaving  all  the  time. 

"I  am  giddy,"  he  thought  and  spat  in  dis- 
gust. He  wanted  to  hurry,  because  he  had  al- 
ready taken  many  steps  and  was  still  in  the 
square.  He  felt  like  a  man  in  a  dream  who 
wants  to  hurry  on  and  remains  painfully  on  the 
same  spot. 

In  the  shadow  of  Tarnok  Street  he  saw  light 
uniforms.  This  sight,  like  a  painful  recollec- 
tion, pushed  him  forward.  His  shoulder  rubbed 
against  the  houses  and  suddenly  he  stumbled 
into  the  shop.  The  match  in  his  hand  evaded 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  85 

the  wick  of  the  candle  with  cunning  undisciplined 
movements. 

Sebastian  Ulwing  fell  into  the  armchair.  He 
closed  his  eyes.  When  he  opened  them  again, 
everything  seemed  to  be  in  a  haze.  "They  make 
worse  candles  now  than  in  olden  times,"  he  re- 
flected, then  he  felt  suddenly  frightened.  He 
was  thirsty.  Open  the  windows.  Call  some- 
body. He  could  move  his  body  but  partially. 
He  fell  back  into  the  armchair.  The  effort  cov- 
ered his  brow  with  sweat. 

He  seemed  to  hear  the  guns  somewhere.  What 
did  that  matter  to  him.  All  that  concerned 
others  seemed  to  him  strange  and  distant  now. 

To  pray.  ...  A  child's  prayer  came  to  his 
mind.  He  thought  of  the  past  but  it  tired  him 
as  if  it  forced  him  to  turn  his  head.  Life  was  so 
good  and  simple.  That  Barbara  should  have 
married  Christopher  was,  after  all,  the  right 
thing. 

A  painful  confusion  went  on  in  his  brain. 
Without  the  slightest  continuity  in  his  thoughts, 
he  remembered  that  he  owed  the  baker  a  half- 
penny. He  began  to  worry;  he  had  just  ordered 
a  pair  of  shoes  at  the  bootmaker's.  "With  bright 
buckles."  He  had  said  that.  Who  was  going 
to  buy  these  now?  Then,  for  the  first  time,  it 
struck  him  that  nobody  wore  shoes  like  that  now- 
adays. Tears  came  to  his  eyes.  Against  his 
will,  his  body  fell  forward.  How  rusty  those 


86  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

buckles  on  his  shoes  were  .  .  .  the  one  on  the 
left  foot  was  getting  rustier  every  minute.  Rust 
seemed  to  flow  on  it,  red,  dense.  It  was  spread- 
ing over  the  white  stocking  ...  it  flowed  over 
the  floor. 

The  candle  burnt  to  the  end.  The  flame  flared 
up  once  more,  looked  round,  went  out.  The 
heavy  smell  of  molten  tallow  filled  the  shop  and 
the  head  of  Uncle  Sebastian  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  between  the  leather  wings  of  the  arm- 
chair. .  .  . 

Outside,  with  the  coming  day,  the  firing  in- 
creased every  moment.  But  this  wild  thunder 
was  not  speaking  to  Pest.  From  the  heights  of 
the  hills  of  Buda  red-capped  soldiers  bombarded 
the  castle.  The  Imperialists  retorted  hopelessly. 

The  dawn  was  gray  and  trembling. 

No  news  penetrated  the  locked  door  of  Ul- 
wing's  house. 

In  the  cellar  Mrs.  Fiiger  was  making  band- 
ages, with  depressing  sighs.  The  little  book- 
keeper sat  on  the  top  of  a  barrel  and  held  his 
head  sideways,  as  if  listening.  At  every  detona- 
tion he  banged  his  heel  against  the  barrel. 

His  son  stared  at  him  so  rigidly  that  his  short- 
sighted eyes  became  contracted  by  the  effort. 
He  yawned  with  fatigue.  Now,  old  Fiiger's  feet 
struck  the  side  of  the  barrel  at  longer  and  longer 
intervals.  Only  bv  this  did  his  son  notice  that 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  87 

the  firing  became  less  frequent;  by  and  by  it 
stopped.  Then  once  more  the  house  shook.  A 
last  explosion  rent  the  frightful  silence  in  twain 
and  broken  glass  was  hurled  with  loud  clatter 
from  the  windows. 

"That  was  somewhere  near!" 

The  builder  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He 
wanted  to  know  what  was  happening.  He 
rushed  up  the  stairs.  In  the  green  room  he  tore 
the  shutters  deliberately  open. 

Opposite,  the  royal  castle  burned  with  a  smoky 
flame  and  on  the  bastion,  beside  the  small  white 
flag  of  the  Imperialists,  a  tri-colour  was  unruffled 
in  the  wind. 

"Victory!"  shouted  Christopher  Ulwing.  His 
short  ringing  voice  fell  like  a  blow  from  a  ham- 
mer through  the  whole  house. 

Anne  began  to  laugh. 

"Do  you  hear,  Christopher,  we  have  won!" 

When  in  the  brightness  of  May  the  flag  was 
unfurled  on  the  bastion  of  the  castle  and  opened 
out  like  a  bountiful  hand,  it  scattered  joy  from 
its  folds.  Its  colours  were  repeated  in  Pest  and 
Buda.  Tricolours  answered  from  the  houses,  the 
windows,  the  attics,  the  roofs.  Singing,  the  peo- 
ple rushed  toward  the  chain-bridge  which  re- 
sounded with  the  irregular  trampling  of  human 
feet.  The  tide  swept  Ulwing  the  builder  with 
it.  He  went  to  his  brother.  So  much  to  tell! 
So  much  to  askl 

From  the  other  shore,  the  people  of  Buda  came 


88  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

running.  And  on  the  bridge  over  the  Danube 
the  two  towns  fell  into  each  other's  arms. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  there* was  a  crush.  A 
heavy  yellow  cart  turned  into  the  road.  A  thin, 
yellow-faced  man  was  on  the  driver's  seat.  His 
moustaches  hung  in  a  black  fringe  on  either  side 
of  his  mouth.  The  cart  was  covered  with  canvas. 
The  canvas  was  bespattered  with  dirty  red  spots. 
Human  legs  and  arms  protruded  from  it,  sway- 
ing helplessly  according  to  the  movements  of 
the  cart. 

The  crowd  had  stopped  singing.  Men  took 
their  hats  off.  Those  in  front  shouted  in  horror 
at  the  driver. 

The  jerks  caused  a  corpse  to  slip  slowly  from 
under  the  canvas.  Indifferent,  the  yellow  coach- 
man whipped  his  horses  and  the  cart  went  on  at 
a  greater  speed.  The  corpse's  head  now  reached 
the  ground.  It  struck  the  protruding  stones  of 
the  roadway,  jumped  up  with  a  jerk,  and  with 
glaring  open  eyes  fell  back  into  the  street. 

The  crowd  passed  by  in  speechless  horror. 

Springless  carts  brought  the  wounded.  The 
courtyards  of  decaying  houses  were  full  of  red- 
caps, bayonets.  On  the  pavement,  shiny  blue 
flies  swarmed  over  a  dead  horse.  From  the  ditch 
of  the  canal,  the  soles  of  two  boots  protruded. 
Carts  covered  with  canvas  everywhere.  Their 
lifeless  load  swayed  slowly  in  the  sun. 

Christopher  Ulwing  turned  the  corner  of  Holy 
Trinity  Square.  People  stood  in  front  of  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  89 

clockmaker's  shop.  The  first  storey  jutting  over 
the  street  cast  a  deep  shadow  in  the  glaring  white 
sunshine. 

The  builder  recognised  Brother  Sebastian's 
friends.  The  lame  wood-carver  leaned  against 
the  wall  and  wiped  his  eyes.  The  censor  was 
there  too.  He  pressed  his  hand  against  his  face 
as  if  he  had  a  toothache.  Those  behind  him  stood 
on  tiptoe  and  stretched  their  necks.  When  they 
perceived  him  they  all  took  their  hats  off. 

The  chaplain's  pointed,  bird-like  face  appeared 
in  the  open  door.  He  walked  with  important 
steps  to  meet  the  builder.  He  spoke  at  length, 
with  unction,  pointed  several  times  to  the  sky 
and  shook  his  head  sideways. 

The  big  bony  hands  of  Christopher  Ulwing 
clasped  each  other  over  his  chest,  like  two  twisted 
hooks. 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

Now  they  all  stood  round  him  and  all  talked 
at  once.  A  curious,  old-fashioned  lady  bowed 
suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"With  your  kind  permission,  I  am  Amalia 
Csik.  I  am  entitled  to  speak.  Tlpey  only  heard 
it  from  me.  You  may  remember  I  live  on  the 
Fisherman's  bastion.  Last  night  my  husband 
felt  unwell,  because  we  hid  in  the  cellar.  The 
air  was  bad.  So  I  went  up  into  our  rooms  for 
some  medicine." 

The  builder  turned  painfully  towards  the  door 
of  the  shop.  The  people  stood  in  his  way. 


90  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"Hurry  up,"  whispered  the  chaplain.  The 
lady  went  on  talking  all  the  faster. 

"Pray  imagine,  I  saw  the  whole  thing  from  my 
window.  Someone  lit  a  fire  on  the  bastion.  I 
recognised  him  at  once:  the  clockmaker.  I  saw 
his  face,  the  flame  just  lit  it  up.  Then  a  shot 
rang  out.  And  the  clockmaker  fell  to  the  ground 
near  the  wall." 

Christopher's  heart  contracted  in  anguish.  His 
eyes  reddened  as  if  smoke  stung  them.  "Poor 
Brother  Sebastian  ..."  and  he  could  not  help 
thinking  of  Anne. 

The  lady  sighed  deeply. 

"You  may  imagine  I  was  frightened  out  of 
my  wits.  I  flew  back  to  the  cellar.  There  my 
husband  explained  everything.  His  reverence 
the  chaplain  knows  it  too,  so  do  the  others;  it  is 
they  who  broke  into  the  shop  after  the  siege." 

The  builder  started  again  towards  the  shop. 

The  chaplain  made  him  a  sign  to  stop.  He 
again  lifted  his  hand  to  heaven.  He  spoke  of 
the  country.  Of  heroes.  He  turned  his  pointed 
bird-face  upward  as  if  inspired. 

"And  greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that 
a  man  lay  down  his  life  .  .  ." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  The  builder  thought 
he  could  not  stand  the  voice  of  the  priest  any 
longer. 

The  chaplain  became  more  and  more  enthusias- 
tic. 

"The  name  of  Sebastian  Ulwing  will  live  for- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  91 

ever  in  our  memory.  Buda,  the  grateful,  will 
preserve  the  memory  of  its  heroic  martyrs." 

The  builder  shuddered.  He  wanted  to  speak, 
but,  with  an  apostolic  gesture,  the  priest  opened 
his  arms  to  the  assembled  people. 

"And  do  you  who  are  brought  here  by  your 
pious  respect  for  a  hero,  tell  your  children  and 
your  children's  children  that  it  was  a  simple,  God- 
fearing clockmaker  who  with  signals  of  fire  called 
the  relieving  Hungarian  armies  into  the  fortress, 
suffering  death  therefor  by  a  deadly  bullet  at  the 
hands  of  the  foe!" 

He  had  grown  sentimental  over  his  own  elo- 
quence. The  builder,  embarrassed,  looked 
around  him.  Big  coloured  handkerchiefs  were 
drawn.  People  blew  their  noses  noisily.  Mrs. 
Amalia  Csik  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  circle. 
She  felt  very  important.  She  reiterated  her 
story  to  every  new-comer: 

"It  happened  like  this.  .  .  ." 

"He  is  the  real  hero,  the  hero  of  our  street," 
affirmed  the  gingerbread  maker  from  the  next 
house.  The  baker  too  nodded  and  thought  of 
the  two  loaves  for  which  Sebastian  Ulwing  owed 
him. 

For  a  moment  the  builder  stared  helplessly 
into  the  priest's  bird-face.  He  was  frightened 
by  what  he  had  heard.  He  was  agitated,  as 
if  by  his  silence  he  had  entered  a  fictitious  credit 
dishonestly  into  his  ledger.  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  forehead. 


92  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"Reverend  Mr.  Chaplain,  allow  me.  .  .  .  My 
poor  brother  Sebastian  was  a  peaceful  citizen. 
He  never  took  any  interest  in  che  ideals  of  the 
war  of  Liberation.  He  kept  carefully  out  of 
revolutionary  movements.  .  .  ." 

The  priest  pushed  his  open  palm  reprovingly 
into  the  air. 

"Master-builder  Ulwing,  even  the  humilitas 
Christiana  leaves  you  free  to  receive  with  raised 
head  the  pious  praise  bestowed  on  your  famous 
brother." 

"Listen  to  me,"  shouted  Christopher  Ulwing 
in  despair.  "It  was  an  accident.  Believe  me. 
You  are  mistaken.  .  .  ." 

The  crowd  became  hostile  in  its  interruptions. 
Those  behind  murmured.  Amalia  Csik  began 
to  fear  for  her  present  importance.  She  incited 
the  people  furiously,  as  if  this  stranger  from  Pest 
had  attempted  to  deprive  them  of  an  honour  due 
to  them. 

"He  is  so  rich,  and  yet  he  left  his  brother  poor. 
He  never  gave  him  anything.  Now  he  wants 
to  deprive  him  of  his  memory." 

"We  won't  let  him!"  shouted  the  bootmaker 
from  Gentleman  Street  and  resolved  not  to  claim 
from  the  builder  the  price  of  Sebastian  Ulwing's 
buckle  shoes. 

The  chaplain  rebuked  the  builder  severely: 

"Nobody  must  grudge  us  the  respect  we  pay 
to  our  hero!" 

Christopher  Ulwing's  honest  face  assumed  a 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  93 

resigned  expression.  With  a  sweeping  move- 
ment of  his  hand  he  announced  his  submission. 
An  entry  had  been  made  in  the  books  over  which 
he  had  no  control.  After  all,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter why  a  man  is  proclaimed  a  hero  ?  To  signal, 
at  the  risk  of  one's  life,  to  a  little  girl,  or  to  sol- 
diers, what  is  the  difference? 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  scarcely  audibly.  He 
took  his  hat  off  and,  slightly  stooping,  entered 
the  shop.  Outside,  on  the  clock-sign,  sparrows 
were  waiting  for  Brother  Sebastian's  crumbs. 
Indoors  two  candles  burned.  The  silence  was 
broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the  clocks;  it 
sounded  like  the  beating  of  many  hearts.  The 
heart  of  him  who  wound  the  clocks  beat  no  more. 

Night  was  falling  when  the  builder  descended 
from  the  castle. 

"I  shall  come  back  for  the  night,"  he  said  to 
the  spectacle-maker  and  the  wood-carver,  who  had 
decided  to  sit  up  near  their  old  friend.  Then  he 
stepped  out  smartly,  making  an  effort  to  keep 
his  head  erect,  but  his  eyes  looked  dimly  upon 
the  people.  He  walked  as  if  nobody  else  existed, 
as  if  he  were  quite  alone.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  throughout  all  his  life  he  had  been  alone. 
He  did  not  mind ;  it  was  the  cause  of  his  strength. 
To  expect  nothing  from  anybody,  to  lean  on  no 
one.  But  what  he  felt  now  was  something  quite 
different.  It  was  not  the  solitude  of  strength, 
but  that  of  old  age.  The  house  in  Pozsony  with 
its  dark  corners;  his  mother's  songs;  his  father's 


94  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

workshop;  his  youth  .  .  .  there  was  nobody  left 
with  him  to  whom  these  were  ^realities.  When 
a  man  remains  alone  with  the"  past,  it  is  more 
painful  than  present  solitude.  It  came  home 
to  him  what  it  meant,  now  that  everyone  had 
gone  to  whom  he  could  say:  "Do  you  remember?" 

Round  him  soldiers  began  to  flow  in.  Rows 
of  men,  grimy  with  sweat  and  smoke.  The 
drums  beat.  The  crowd  followed  on  both  flanks. 
The  whole  road  was  singing. 

In  the  windows  of  the  houses  handkerchiefs 
flickered  like  white  flames. 

Anne  and  Christopher  had  run  to  the  window. 
Opposite,  the  sun  had  set  already  behind  the 
castle.  The  outline  of  Buda,  spires,  gables, 
showed  dark  on  the  red  sky.  A  black  town  on 
the  top  of  the  hill.  On  the  bridge  over  the  Dan- 
ube a  dark  stream  of  steel  poured  over  to  Pest 
.  .  .  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets.  They  too  re- 
ceived the  sun  on  their  backs  and  had  their  faces 
in  the  shade. 

Anne  leaned  out  from  the  window. 

At  the  head  of  the  troops,  the  shape  of  a  man 
dominated  the  floating  throng.  The  one  in  the 
red  dolman.  The  leader.  .  .  .  His  horse  was 
invisible.  The  living  stream  appeared  to  carry 
him  over  its  head. 

From  the  bridge  end  on  the  Pest  side  he  looked 
back  to  the  castle.  The  outline  of  his  features 
shone  up  clear  and  strong,  with  Buda  as  its  back- 
ground. The  sun,  reflected  violently  from  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  95 

glasses  of  his  spectacles,  sent  a  vivid  flame  into 
the  darkness. 

"Do  you  see  them?"  shouted  Anne  and,  look- 
ing at  the  leader  she  felt  as  if  in  his  face  she  saw 
all  the  faces  that  followed  him  in  the  shade — 
the  faces  of  the  whole  victorious  army. 

Ulwing  the  builder  gently  opened  the  front 
gate. 

When  Christopher  heard  that  Uncle  Sebas- 
tian was  dead  he  began  to  weep.  His  sobbing 
was  audible  in  the  corridor.  Anne  gazed  rigidly, 
tearlessly,  in  front  of  her. 

"Shall  I  then  see  him  never  more?" 

"Never." 

Her  little  face  was  convulsed.  She  shut  her 
eyes  for  a  moment.  She  would  have  liked  to  be 
alone. 

In  the  corridor,  the  Fiigers  were  waiting  with 
a  miserable  expression  on  their  faces.  The 
builder  nodded  silently  to  them.  He  went  down 
the  stairs.  He  wanted  to  be  alone. 

He  stopped  in  the  hall.  A  curious  murmur 
was  audible  outside;  it  spread  through  the  air 
with  a  penetrating  force  as  if  it  had  risen  from 
the  very  foundation  of  things  and  beings,  from 
between  the  roots  of  the  town.  He  recognised 
it.  It  was  the  outcry  of  joy  and  sorrow;  the 
breath  of  the  town,  and  as  Christopher  Ulwing 
listened  to  it  he  felt  keenly  that  the  breath  of  the 
town  and  his  own  were  but  one.  He  rejoiced 


96  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

with  the  town.  He  wept  with  the  town.  .  .  . 
The  hatred  for  those  who  had  hurt  what  was  his 
own — his  brother,  his  home,  his*  bridge,  so  much 
of  his  work — took  definite  shape  in  his  heart. 

As  if  facing  a  foe,  he  raised  his  head  aggres- 
sively. His  eye  struck  a  little  tablet  hanging 
on  the  opposite  door,  it  bore  the  German 
inscription : 

CANZELEI. 

His  jaw  turned  aside.  His  steady  hand 
snatched  at  the  tablet  and  tore  it  from  its  hooks. 
He  took  a  mason's  pencil  from  his  waistcoat. 
He  reflected  for  a  second.  Was  it  spelled  in 
Hungarian  with  a  T  or  a  D  ?  Then,  with  vigor- 
ous strokes  he  wrote  on  the  door  * : 

IRODA. 


*Iroda=office  (in  Magyar). 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN  on  quiet  Sunday  afternoons 
the  bell  sounded  at  the  door  of  Ul- 
wing's  house,  a  sudden  silence  fell 
over  all  in  the  green  room.  No- 
body mentioned  it,  yet  each  of  them  knew  what 
came  to  the  others'  minds.  This  hour  was  Uncle 
Sebastian's  hour. 

Summer  passed  away.  One  morning,  the 
bandy-legged  little  old  man  emerged  again  from 
the  dawn  and  silently  pasted  on  the  walls  the 
last  pages  of  the  great  book. 

Mamsell  Tini  protested  in  vain — Anne  would 
stop.  She  read  the  poster. 

"It  is  all  over." 

She  went  on,  saying  never  a  word,  and  her 
imagination,  restricted  by  the  walls  of  a  town, 
ignorant  of  the  free,  limitless  fields,  showed  her 
a  quaint  picture.  She  saw  in  her  mind  a  great 
square,  something  like  the  Town  Hall  Market, 
but  even  larger  than  that.  Around  it,  trees  in 
a  row.  Grass  everywhere,  red-capped  soldiers 
lying  motionless  in  the  grass.  Her  feverish  eyes 
closed. 

"It  is  all  over.  .  .  ." 

One  evening,  grandfather  Jorg  was  arrested 

97 


98  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

in  his  bookshop.  He  was  led,  surrounded  by 
bayonets,  through  the  town.  Many  people  were 
taken  like  that  in  those  times.  -Those  who  re- 
mained free  spoke  in  whispers  of  these  things. 
Anne  heard  something  about  grandfather  Jorg 
printing  some  proclamation ;  that  was  why  he  had 
to  go  to  prison.  But  nobody  seemed  to  know 
exactly  what  happened.  The  printing  press  was 
closed  down  by  the  soldiers;  the  apple  tree  at 
the  corner  of  Snake  Street  was  cut  down  and 
in  the  bookshop  young  Jorg  had  to  place  the 
bookshelf  in  such  a  way  that  one  could  see 
from  the  street  into  the  deepest  recess  of  the 
shop. 

It  was  many  months  before  Ulrich  Jorg  was 
released.  Meanwhile  he  had  turned  quite  old 
and  tiny. 

The  town  too  looked  as  if  it  had  aged.  Peo- 
ple got  accustomed  to  that.  People  will  get  ac- 
customed to  anything.  The  streets  were  full  of 
Imperial  officers  and  quiet  women  in  mourning. 
.  .  .  Slowly  the  traces  of  the  bombardment  dis- 
appeared. On  Ulwing's  house,  however,  the 
mutilated  pillar-man  remained  untouched. 

John  Hubert  disliked  this  untidiness. 

"It  has  to  stay  like  that!"  growled  the  builder. 
He  never  told  them  why. 

One  day  two  students  passed  under  the  open 
window  of  the  office.  One  of  the  boys  said: 
"This  old  house  has  got  a  national  guardsman; 
look  at  him,  he  has  been  to  the  war." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  99 

The  pen  of  Christopher  Ulwing  stopped 
abruptly.  What?  People  had  already  come  to 
call  his  house  old? 

Where  were  those  who  shook  their  heads  when 
he  began  to  build  here  on  the  deserted  shore,  on 
the  shifting  sands?  Since  then  a  town  had 
sprung  up  around  him.  How  many  years  ago 
was  it?  How  old  was  he  himself?  He  did  not 
reckon  it  up;  the  thought  of  his  age  was  to  him 
like  an  object  one  picks  up  by  chance  and  throws 
away  without  taking  the  trouble  to  examine.  An- 
nihilation disgusted  him.  He  rebelled  against 
it.  He  avoided  everything  that  might  remind 
him  of  it.  To  build !  To  build !  One  could  kill 
death  with  that.  To  build  a  house  was  like  build- 
ing up  life.  To  draw  plans ;  homes  for  life.  To 
work  for  posterity.  That  rejuvenates  man. 

But  the  town  had  come  to  a  standstill. 

Ulwing  the  builder  called  his  grandchildren 
into  his  room,  and— a  thing  he  had  never  done 
before — he  listened  to  their  talk  attentively.  He 
was  painfully  impressed  by  the  discovery  that 
among  themselves  they  spoke  a  language  differ- 
ing from  that  which  they  used  with  him.  So  the 
difference  between  generations  was  great  enough 
to  give  the  very  words  a  different  meaning! 
Were  all  efforts  to  draw  them  together  vain? 

He  thought  of  those  gone  before  him.  They 
too  must  have  known  this.  They  too  must  have 
kept  it  concealed.  How  many  secrets  there  must 
be  between  succeeding  generations!  And  each 


100  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

generation  takes  its  own  secrets  with  it  to  the 
grave,  so  that  the  following  may  live. 

These  were  Christopher  Ulwing's  hardest  days. 
He  built  ruined  houses  up  anew.  He  built  him- 
self up  anew  too.  And  while  he  seemed  more 
powerful  than  ever,  business  men  around  him 
failed  and  complained. 

"Building  land  will  have  to  be  sold;  one  can't 
stick  to  things  in  these  times,"  said  the  con- 
tractors and  looked  enquiringly  at  Christopher 
Ulwing.  "What  was  the  great  carpenter's  opin- 
ion?" But  his  expression  remained  cold  and  im- 
movable. Christopher  Ulwing  never  opened  the 
conversation  except  when  he  had  to  give  orders; 
otherwise  he  waited  and  observed. 

In  the  evening  the  window  of  the  green  room 
remained  long  alight.  John  Hubert  and  Augus- 
tus Fiiger  sat  there  in  the  cosy  armchairs  in  the 
corner  and  now  young  Otto  Fiiger  was  present 
too,  always  respectful,  always  inquisitive. 

"These  are  bad  times,"  sighed  the  little  book- 
keeper, "one  hears  of  nothing  but  bankruptcy." 

"One  goes  down,  the  other  up,"  growled  the 
builder,  "never  say  die." 

"During  the  revolution  it  was  possible  to  ex- 
pect better  times,"  said  John  Hubert,  "but  at 
present.  .  .  ." 

His  father  interrupted  him. 

"These  things  too  will  come  to  an  end." 

"The  question  is,  won't  these  things  end  us 
first?" 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  101 

"Not  me  and  the  town!"  said  the  builder. 
"Do  you  hear  Fiiger?  Any  building  land  for 
sale  by  auction  has  to  be  bought  up.  The  houses 
for  sale  must  be  bought  too.  I  have  capital.  I 
have  credit.  Everything  must  be  bought  up. 
Within  five  years  I  will  set  the  whole  thing  in 
order." 

"Five  years.  .  .  ."  John  Hubert  looked  at  his 
father.  Time  left  no  mark  on  him. 

Next  day,  Christopher  Ulwing  gave  his  grand- 
son a  book  on  architecture.  Woodcuts  of 
churches  and  palaces  were  in  the  text. 

"We  shall  build  some  like  that,  you  and  I, 
when  you  are  an  architect." 

"Write  your  name  in  it,"  said  John  Hubert. 
"Where  is  the  date?  A  careful  business  man 
never  writes  his  name  down  without  a  date." 

"Business  man!"  This  word  sounded  bleak 
in  young  Christopher's  ears.  He  looked  down 
crestfallen  and  drew  his  mouth  to  one  side.  He 
had  retained  this  movement  since  the  shell  had 
struck  the  house. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  himself  unobserved  he  put 
the  book  aside.  He  went  to  Gal's.  It  was  still 
the  little  hunchback  who  did  his  mathematical 
work  for  him.  After  that,  he  bent  his  steps  to 
the  Hosszu's;  he  thought  of  his  Latin  prepa- 
ration. 

Christopher  had  some  time  since  been  trans- 
ferred to  a  private  school  so  as  to  receive  his 
education  in  Hungarian.  This  was  his  grand- 


102  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

> 

father's  choice.  His  father  approved  of  the 
school  because  it  admitted  only  boys  of  the  best 
families.  Christopher  had  new  schoolmates.  All 
were  children  of  nobles.  They  were  not  the  kind 
that  would  have  envied  young  M  tiller,  the  apothe- 
cary's son,  the  possession  of  his  jars  and  bottles, 
as  the  boys  in  Christopher's  old  school  used  to 
do.  They  would  not  have  taken  the  slightest 
interest  in  gaudy  strings  and  crude-coloured  pic- 
tures like  those  Adam  Walter  used  to  produce 
from  his  pockets  in  playtime.  They  talked  of 
horses,  saddles,  dogs.  Practically  every  one  of 
them  was  country-bred  and  had  only  come  to 
town  for  school. 

Christopher  continued  none  the  less  to  go  on 
Sundays  to  the  Hosszu's;  he  saw  Sophie  rarely; 
but  when  the  young  lady  happened  to  come  ac- 
cidentally into  Gabriel's  room,  the  boy  would 
blush  and  dared  not  look  at  her.  But  many 
were  the  times  when  he  had  gone  a  long  way 
round  through  Grenadier's  Street  so  that  he 
might  look  up  stealthily  under  his  hat  to  the 
windows  of  the  Hosszu  house. 

One  afternoon,  when  he  turned  into  the  street 
he  saw  his  father  going  in  the  same  direction. 
He  wore  an  embroidered  waistcoat  and  walked 
ceremoniously.  The  boy  stopped,  stared  at  him, 
then  ran  away  suddenly. 

Since  the  dancing  lessons  John  Hubert  had 
paid  several  visits  to  the  Hosszu's. 

An  accident  revealed  to  him  the  cause  of  his 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  103 

attraction.  One  day,  on  taking  his  departure, 
he  left  a  new  yellow  glove  behind  him.  He 
turned  back  on  the  stairs,  but  Sophie  was  already 
.running  after  him.  When  she  handed  him  the 
glove,  her  hand  felt  warm.  John  Hubert  per- 
ceived suddenly  that  Sophie  had  lovely  eyes  and 
that  her  figure  was  slender. 

After  this,  his  visits  to  the  Hosszu's  became 
still  more  frequent.  Mrs.  Hosszu  was  knitting 
with  two  yard-long  wooden  needles  near  the  win- 
dow and  never  looked  up,  but  if  Sophie  spoke  in 
whispers  to  John  Hubert  she  left  the  room  hur- 
riedly. Occasionally,  she  stayed  out  for  a  very 
long  time.  Then  she  opened  the  door  unex- 
pectedly, quietly.  And  she  would  look  at  the 
girl  with  a  question  in  her  eyes. 

"Why  does  she  look  like  that?"  thought  John 
Hubert  and  felt  ill  at  ease. 

That  day  it  was  Sophie's  father  who  came  in 
instead  of  his  wife. 

Simon  Hosszu  was  a  toothless,  red-faced  man. 
One  of  his  eyes  watered  constantly  for  which 
reason  he  wore  a  gold  earring  in  his  left  ear.  He 
spoke  of  everything  quickly,  plausibly.  He 
never  gave  time  for  thought. 

While  John  Hubert  listened  to  him  he  quite 
forgot  that  the  name  of  old  Hosszu  had  lately 
been  mentioned  with  suspicion  in  business  circles. 

Hosszu  owned  water  mills.  The  great  steam 
mill  did  him  considerable  damage.  None  the 
less,  he  spoke  as  if  the  water  mills  had  a  great 


104  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

future  before  them.  He  got  enthusiastic.  In 
confidence  he  mentioned  brilliant  strokes  of  busi- 
ness to  be  done — timber,  plans  of  lime  kilns.  A 
brewery.  A  paper  mill.  .  .  . 

"If  I  had  capital,  I  should  become  a  rich  man." 

John  Hubert  was  bewildered  by  his  audacious 
plans.  He  loved  money,  and  the  idea  of  pre- 
senting plans  of  his  own  to  his  father  pleased  him. 
He  raised  his  brows.  He  tried  to  retain  it  all 
in  his  memory.  On  leaving  he  pressed  the  hand 
of  Simon  Hosszu  warmly. 

The  anteroom  was  saturated  with  the  smell  of 
cooking.  A  dirty  towel  lay  on  the  table.  Sophie 
snatched  it  up  and  hid  it  behind  her  back.  John 
Hubert  took  shorter  leave  of  her  than  usual. 

In  the  street  he  tried  to  think  of  Sophie's 
pretty  face,  but  the  odour  of  the  kitchen  and  the 
dirty  towel  upset  him  unpleasantly.  He  began 
to  think  of  Simon  Hosszu's  various  plans.  He 
could  not  understand  what  they  amounted  to. 
Now  that  he  presented  HOSSZAI' s  plans  in  his  own 
language  they  seemed  less  convincing.  They  be- 
came dim  and  risky.  He  had  to  drop  one  after 
the  other.  The  facts,  no  longer  distorted  by  elo- 
quence, glared  at  him  soberly  in  their  real  light. 

After  supper  he  remained  alone  with  his  father 
in  the  green  room;  they  spoke  of  various  firms 
and  enterprises;  he  beat  round  the  bush  for  a 
long  time. 

Christopher  Ulwing  watched   his   son   atten- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  105 

tively,  with  knitted  brows.  When  John  Hubert 
mentioned  the  name  of  Simon  Hosszu,  the  ex- 
pectant expression  disappeared  from  the  builder's 
face.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Simon  Hosszu  is  in  a  pretty  bad  way;  he 
has  exhausted  his  credit  everywhere,"  and  then 
he  added,  indifferently,  as  if  speaking  casually: 
"It  is  curious,  up  to  now  he  has  spared  us.  I 
can't  understand  what  he  has  in  mind." 

John  Hubert  could  not  help  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Hosszu,  who  knitted  and  never  looked  up,  who 
left  the  room  and  appeared  unexpectedly  in  the 
door.  His  father's  voice  rang  in  his  ear:  what 
had  they  in  mind?  .  .  .  And  Sophie?  No,  she 
was  not  in  the  conspiracy.  He  acquitted  the 
girl  in  his  mind.  He  felt  distinctly  that  she  was 
very  dear  to  him. 

His  bedroom  was  beyond  that  of  the  children. 
Everything  there  was  as  perfectly  in  its  place 
as  the  necktie  on  his  collar.  On  the  dressing 
table,  brushes,  combs,  bottles,  jars,  all  arranged 
in  order. 

John  Hubert  counted  the  money  in  his  purse. 
He  thought  how  his  most  cherished  wishes  had 
always  been  curbed.  Now  he  burnt  the  natural 
desire  of  a  virile  man,  which  in  his  case  was 
mingled  with  the  fear  of  its  imminent  disap- 
pearance; the  knowledge  that  the  hours  of  his 
manhood  were  already  numbered  sharpened  his 
craving.  He  longed  for  woman  with  an  inten- 


106  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

sity  of  which  youth  is  incapable.  He  wished  for 
a  woman  bending  to  his  will,  weaker  than  he,  and 
the  memory  of  a  little  sempstress  crossed  his 
mind.  How  he  had  loved  her,  for  his  dominion 
over  her  and  .  .  .  Then  Sophie's  image  abruptly 
became  confused  with  the  fading  picture  of  the 
poor  simple  girl. 

Without  any  continuity  he  thought  of  his  chil- 
dren. "Would  Sophie  be  a  good  mother  to 
them?"  He  asked  himself  in  vain.  He  could 
not  answer  the  question.  Mrs.  Hosszu,  the  dirty 
towel,  Simon  Hosszu's  bad  reputation,  his  shady 
propositions,  his  dangerous  plausibility.  .  .  . 
That  influence  frightened  him  and  it  became  clear 
to  him  that  henceforth  his  desire  would  be 
restrained  by  two  hostile  forces,  the  builder's  will 
and  his  own  sober  brain.  In  his  mind's  eye  he 
saw  Sophie's  lovely  shaded  eyes  looking  at  him. 
They  reproached  him  gently,  just  as  the  eyes 
of  the  other  girl  had  done  on  the  day  they  parted. 
John  Hubert  felt  a  bitter  pain  rend  him  from 
head  to  foot.  The  old  pain,  the  pain  of  thwarted 
hopes  so  familiar  to  him  since  his  youth. 

Past  and  present  were  all  the  same  to  him. 
He  would  not  make  a  clean  cut  between  the  two 
and  he  just  had  to  continue  to  curb  the  aspira- 
tions of  his  soul.  The  ray  of  light  that  had  shone 
on  him  during  the  past  few  months  was  now  ex- 
tinguished. 

He  proceeded  to  turn  the  key  in  his  watch. 
He  went  on  just  as  before.  Gentry  ticking  time 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  107 

was  again  meaningless  to  him:  work  and  com- 
promise, that  was  all.  And  as  he  looked  up  in- 
to the  mirror,  his  face  stared  at  him,  tired  and 
old. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  Inner  Town  was  preparing  to  cele- 
brate the  centenary  of  the  chemist's  shop 
at  the  sign  of  the  Holy  Trinity.  The 
invitations  were  extended  to  distin- 
guished members  of  neighbouring  parishes. 

A  crowd  gathered  in  front  of  the  house  of 
Miiller,  the  chemist  in  Servites'  Square,  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  arriving  carriages.  Through 
the  house  a  faint  smell  of  drugs  was  noticeable. 
The  stairs  were  covered  with  a  carpet.  This  put 
the  guests  into  a  festive  mood.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  carpet  Gal  the  wine  merchant  and 
his  wife,  who  lived  on  very  bad  terms  with  each 
other,  went  arm  in  arm  up  the  stairs. 

Just  then  Ulwing's  carriage  stopped  at  the 
entrance.  At  the  door  the  chemist  received  his 
guests  with  many  bows. 

In  the  drawing-room  new-fashioned  paraffin 
lamps  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  in  front  of  the 
mirror.  The  room  was  packed  with  many  crino- 
lines. The  guests'  faces  were  flushed.  They 
spoke  to  each  other  in  low  voices,  solemnly. 

The  wife  of  the  mayor  diffused  a  strong  per- 
fume of  lavender  round  the  sofa.  Sztaviarsky's 
worn-out  wig  appeared  green  in  the  light  of  the 
lamps. 

108 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  109 

The  Hosszu  family  arrived.  Sophie  had  be- 
come thin  and  wore  a  dress  three  years  old. 
Christopher  recognised  the  dress.  He  did  not 
know  why  but  he  became  sad.  With  an  effort 
he  turned  his  head  away.  He  did  not  look  at 
Sophie,  he  only  felt  her  presence,  and  even  that 
filled  him  with  delight. 

The  three  Miss  Ministers  walked  in  through 
the  door  in  order  of  size.  They  were  fat  and 
pale.  Broad  blue  ribbons  floated  from  the  bon- 
net of  Mrs.  George  Martin  Miinster.  The  last 
to  come  were  the  family  of  Walter  the  wholesale 
linen-merchant.  Silence  fell  over  the  company. 
The  beautiful  Mrs.  Walter  was  usually  not  in- 
vited to  anything  but  informal  parties  because 
the  linen-merchant  had  raised  her  from  the  stage 
to  his  respectable  middle-class  home.  She  had 
once  been  a  singer  in  the  German  theatre  and 
this  was  not  yet  forgotten. 

During  dinner  young  Adam  Walter  was 
Anne's  neighbour.  The  crowded  dining-room 
was  heavy  with  the  smell  of  food.  In  the  centre 
of  the  table  stood  the  traditional  croque-en- 
bouche  cake. 

Anne's  eyes  chanced  to  fall  on  Christopher. 
He  seemed  strikingly  pale  among  the  heavy, 
flushed  faces.  At  the  end  of  the  table  sat  Sophie, 
mute,  broken.  Twice  she  raised  her  glass  to  her 
lips.  She  did  not  notice  it  was  empty.  Ignace 
Holt,  the  first  assistant  of  the  "Holy  Trinity" 
Chemist's  shop,  leaned  towards  her  obtrusively. 


110  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Adam  Walter  had  watched  Anne  interestedly 
for  some  time  without  saying  a  word.  He 
thought  her  out  of  place  in  these  Surroundings. 
He  found  in  her  narrow  face  a  disquieting  ex- 
pression of  youthful  calm.  It  seemed  to  the 
young  man  as  if  the  warm  colour  of  her  hair,  a 
shaded  gold,  were  spreading  under  her  skin,  in- 
vading her  innocent  neck.  Her  chin  impressed 
him  as  determined,  a  refined  form  of  the  chin  of 
the  Ulwings.  Her  nose  was  straight  and  short. 
Her  smile  raised  the  corners  of  her  mouth  charm- 
ingly. 

He  looked  at  her  forehead.  Her  fine  eye- 
I  rows  seemed  rather  hard. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  asked  invol- 
untarily. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  surprised.  The  eyes 
of  Adam  Walter  were  just  as  brown  and  restless 
as  those  of  his  beautiful  mother.  His  brow  was 
low  and  broad  with  bulging  temples.  Anne  had 
known  him  since  her  childhood,  but  till  now  she 
had  never  spoken  to  him.  All  she  knew  about 
him  was  that  he  had  once  gone  to  the  same  school 
as  Christopher,  that  he  was  a  poor  scholar  and 
an  excellent  fiddler. 

"Do  you  think  that  people  confide  their 
thoughts  to  strangers?" 

"The  brave  do,"  said  young  Walter.  "I  want 
to  say  everything  that  passes  through  my  mind. 
For  example,  that  all  these  people  here  are  un- 
bearably tedious.  Haven't  you  noticed  it?  Not 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  111 

one  among  them  dares  say  a  thing  that  has  not 
been  said  before.  Not  one  does  a  thing  his  fa- 
ther and  mother  haven't  done  before  him." 

Adam  Walter  felt  that  he  had  caught  the  girl's 
attention  and  became  bolder. 

"They  have  no  sense  whatever.  If  one  of 
them  is  taller  than  the  others  he  must  go  about 
the  world  stooping  so  that  no  one  shall  notice 
it;  otherwise,  for  the  sake  of  order,  they  might 
cut  his  head  or  his  legs  off.  They  have  to  tread 
the  well-worn  path  of  common-places.  Great- 
ness depends  on  official  recognition.  Please, 
don't  laugh.  It  is  so.  Just  now  old  Minister 
told  Sztaviarsky  that  'The  Vampire'  and  'Rob- 
ert le  Diable'  are  the  finest  music  in  the  world. 
Marschner  and  Meyerbeer.  Rossini  the  great- 
est of  all.  Poor  Schubert  too.  That  is  a  com- 
fortable doctrine.  These  composers  can  be  ad- 
mired without  risk.  They  bear  the  hallmark  on 
them.  It  is  a  pity  it  should  all  be  music  for  the 
country  fair.  Schubert  is  like  a  spring  shower. 
Many  small  drops,  warm  soft  drops.  Is  it  not 
so?  Why  do  you  shake  your  head?  You  love 
Schubert.  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry.  I  only  said 
all  this  to  prove  ..." 

He  stopped.     He  stared  into  space. 

"He  exaggerates,"  thought  Anne,  and  re- 
pressed what  came  to  her  lips.  She  thought  of 
her  grandfather  who  had  built  so  much.  And 
this  young  man?  .  .  .  His  words  demolished 
whatever  they  touched. 


112  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"You  exaggerate,"  she  said  aloud.  "I  was 
taught  that  old  age  and  those  who  were  before 
us  ought  to  be  respected." 

"That  is  not  true,"  said  Adam  Walter  with 
warmth.  "I  hate  every  former  age  because  it 
stands  in  the  way  of  my  own.  The  past  is  a  mill- 
stone round  our  necks.  The  future  is  a  wing. 
I  want  to  fly!" 

Anne  followed  his  words  bewildered.  What 
she  heard  attracted  and  repelled  her.  From  her 
childhood,  whenever  anything  came  to  her  mind 
which  conflicted  with  her  respect  for  men  and 
things,  she  pushed  it  aside  as  if  she  had  seen  some- 
thing wicked.  And  this  stranger  bluntly  put 
into  words  what  she  too  had  felt,  vaguely  and 
timidly. 

Adam  Walter  spoke  of  his  plans.  He  would 
go  abroad,  to  Weimar.  He  would  write  his 
sonatas,  his  grand  opera. 

"What  has  been  done  up  to  now  is  nothing. 
What  has  been  made  is  bad,  because  it  was  made. 
One  must  create.  Like  God.  Just  like  Him. 
Even  the  clay  has  to  be  created  anew.  ...  Is 
it  not  so?  The  artist  must  become  God,  other- 
wise let  us  become  linen-merchants." 

His  restless  eyes  shone  quaintly.  Anne  re- 
membered suddenly  two  distant  feverish  eyes 
and  a  word  that  recalled  the  word  "Youth."  All 
at  once  she  felt  herself  freer.  She  turned  to 
Adam  Walter.  But  the  young  man's  thoughts 
must  have  wandered  to  another  subject,  for  he 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  113 

drew  his  low  forehead  furiously  into  wrinkles. 

"Do  you  know  that  my  father  is  ashamed  of 
my  mother's  art?  And  yet  how  she  sings  when 
we  are  alone,  she  and  I!  When  nobody  hears 
her.  My  father  hides  that  lovely,  imperishable 
voice  behind  his  linens.  And  this  is  your  middle- 
class  society.  It  only  values  what  can  be  mea- 
sured by  the  yard  and  by  the  pound.  These 
things  hurt  sorely." 

He  looked  up  anxiously.  "Did  you  say  any- 
thing? No?  I  beg  of  you  to  imagine  she  simply 
hides  her  voice.  But  perhaps  you  may  not  know. 
My  mother  was  a  singer." 

Anne  was  embarrassed.  Hitherto  she  had 
thought  that  was  something  to  be  ashamed  of. 

Walter  asked  her  rapidly : 

"Of  course,  you  sing  too.  Sztaviarsky  told 
me.  True.  I  remember.  Of  all  his  pupils  the 
most  artistic.  Are  you  going  to  be  a  singer?" 

In  the  girl's  heart  an  instinctive  protest  rose 
against  the  suggestion. 

"But  why  not?"  Adam  Walter's  voice  be- 
came sad. 

Anne  did  not  realise  that  she  answered  the 
question  by  looking  at  Mrs.  Walter,  living  for- 
ever isolated  among  the  others. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  young  man  ironically, 
"your  indulgence  extends  only  to  the  life  of 
others,  but  is  limited  where  your  own  is  con- 
cerned." 

Anne  knew  that  he  spoke  the  truth.     Her 


114  THE  OLID  HOUSE 

thoughts  alone  had  been  freed  to-day.  Her 
movements  were  dominated  and^kept  captive  by 
something.  Perhaps  the  invisiole  power  of  an- 
cient things  and  ancient  men. 

The  room  became  suddenly  silent.  Somebody 
rose  at  the  big  table.  It  was  Gardos,  the  wrin- 
kled head-physician  or  "proto-medicus,"  as  he 
was  called.  He  knew  of  no  other  remedies  for 
his  patients  but  arnica,  emetics  and  nux  vomica. 
Ferdinand  Miiller  half -closed  his  eyes  as  if  ex- 
pecting to  be  patted  on  the  head. 

Anne  paid  no  attention  to  the  proto-medicus' 
account  of  the  hundred  years'  history  of  the  Miil- 
ler family  and  the  "Holy  Trinity"  shop.  She 
was  toying  with  her  own  thoughts  like  a  child 
who  has  obtained  possession  of  the  glass  case  con- 
taining the  trinkets. 

Others  spoke  after  Mr.  Gardos.  The  top  of 
the  croque-en-bouche  cake  inclined  to  one  side. 
The  dinner  was  over. 

In  the  next  room  two  chemist's  assistants  had 
erected  a  veiled  tablet.  Sztaviarsky  played  some 
kind  of  march  on  the  piano.  The  guests  stood 
in  a  semi-circle.  Ferdinand  Miiller  unveiled  the 
mysterious  tablet.  A  murmur  of  rapture  rose: 

"What  a  charming,  kind  thought.  .  .  ." 

Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  chemist.  The 
admirers  of  his  family  and  the  employees  of  his 
shop  had  surprised  him  with  a  new  sign-board. 
There  shone  the  two  gilt  dates.  Between  them  a 
century.  Underneath,  a  big  white  head  of  Ms- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  115 

culapius,  bearing  the  features  of  Ferdinand 
Miiller,  the  chemist.  Nothing  was  wanting; 
there  were  his  side  whiskers  and  the  wart  on  his 
left  cheek.  Only  his  spectacles  had  been  omitted. 

Anne  and  Adam  Warner  looked  at  each  other. 

They  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  laugh  and  in 
this  sympathy  they  became  friends  over  the  heads 
of  the  crowd. 

Sztaviarsky  played  his  march  at  an  ever-in- 
creasing speed.  The  crinolines  began  to  whirl 
round.  Wheels  of  airy,  frilly  tarlatan,  pink, 
yellow,  blue.  Dancing  had  begun  round  the 
piano. 

For  a  brief  moment  Sophie  found  herself 
pressed  against  the  wall  near  John  Hubert.  She 
raised  her  big,  soft  eyes  to  his,  as  if  to  ask  him  a 
question.  But  she  found  something  cold,  final, 
in  John  Hubert's  looks.  The  girl  turned  away. 
Her  eyes  fell  on  Christopher. 

It  seemed  to  the  handsome  tall  boy  that  Sophie 
stroked  his  face  across  the  room.  He  looked  at 
her  sharply.  The  girl  seemed  again  heartlessly 
indifferent.  Tired,  Christopher  went  into  the 
next  room.  There  some  old  gentlemen  and  bon- 
netted  ladies  were  playing  I'hombre  round  a 
green  table.  He  went  through  Mr.  Miiller's 
study.  Then  came  a  quiet  little  room.  Nobody 
was  in  it.  The  light  of  a  white-shaded  paraffin 
lamp  was  reflected  in  a  mirror.  He  threw  him- 
self into  an  easy  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  The  sound  of  the  piano  knocked  sharply 


116  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

against  his  brain.  At  first  this  caused  him  pain. 
Then  he  remembered  that  the  -sounds  of  this 
valse  reached  Sophie  too.  They  touched  her 
hair,  her  lips,  her  bosom.  They  had  invaded  her. 
It  was  from  her  that  they  came  still,  a  swaying, 
treble  rhythm  which  mysteriously  embraced  the 
rhythm  of  love.  They  came  from  her  and 
brought  something  of  her  own  self  with  them. 

Christopher  leaned  his  head  forward  as  if  at- 
tempting to  touch  the  sound  with  his  lips  to  kiss 
it.  Yes,  it  was  swaying  music  like  that  he  felt 
in  his  endless  dreams.  Similar  rhythmical 
pangs  wrought  in  him  when  he  imagined  that 
Sophie  would  come  to  him  at  night,  offering  her 
love.  He  hears  her  steps.  Her  breath  is  warm. 
Her  bosom  heaves  and  whenever  it  rises,  it 
touches  his  face. 

"Little  Chris.  .  .  ."  Just  like  olden  times. 
Just  the  same.  "Now  I  am  dreaming.  I  must 
not  breathe,  or  all  will  be  over."  And  in  his  im- 
agination she  caressed  him  again. 

"Little  Chris.  .  .  ." 

He  started.  This  was  reality.  Sophie's 
voice.  Her  breath.  .  .  .  And  her  bosom 
heaved  and  touched  his  face. 

"Do  you  still  love  me?"  the  girl  asked. 

In  Christopher's  tired  eyes  despair  was  re- 
flected. So  she  knows?  So  she  has  always 
known  what  it  has  cost  him  such  torture  to  hide? 
Then  why  has  she  not  been  kinder  to  him  ?  Why 
did  she  leave  him  to  suffer  so  much? 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  117 

"Do  you  love  me  ?" 

"I  always  loved  you,"  said  the  boy  and  his 
voice  came  dangerously  near  to  a  sob. 

Sophie  stroked  him  like  a  child  requiring  con- 
solation. 

"Poor  little  Chris.  .  .  .  And  we  are  all  just 
as  poor." 

Suddenly  her  hand  stopped  on  the  boy's  brow, 
where  his  hair,  like  his  father's,  curved  boldly 
over  his  forehead.  He  leant  his  head  back  and 
with  a  maidenly  abandon  gave  himself  up  to 
Sophie's  will.  The  girl  leaned  over  him.  She 
looked  at  him  for  a  long  while,  sadly  as  if  to 
take  leave,  then  .  .  .  kissed  his  lips. 

A  kiss,  long  restrained,  meant  for  another. 
And  yet,  the  annihilation  of  a  childhood. 

The  boy  moaned  as  if  he  had  been  wounded 
and  with  the  first  virile  movements  of  his  arms 
drew  the  girl  to  him.  Sophie  resisted  and  pushed 
him  away,  but  from  the  threshold  looked  back 
to  him  with  her  big,  shaded  eyes.  Then  she  was 
gone.  A  feeling  rose  in  Christopher  as  if  she 
had  carried  the  world  with  her. 

He  went  after  her.  When  he  passed  the  card 
players,  he  straightened  himself  out  so  as  to  look 
all  the  taller,  all  the  more  manly.  He  could  not 
help  smiling:  they  knew  nothing.  Nobody  knew 
anything.  He  and  Sophie  were  alone  in  the  se- 
cret and  that  felt  just  like  holding  her  in  his  arms 
among  people  who  could  not  see. 

They  were  still  dancing  in  the  drawing-room. 


118  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Sophie  danced  with  Ignace  Hold.  Christopher 
could  not  quite  understand  how  she  could  do  such 
a  thing  now.  And  she  looked  as  if  she  had  for- 
gotten everything.  Nothing  showed  on  her  fea- 
tures, nothing.  Women  are  precious  comedians. 

He  looked  at  Hold.  He  turned  with  the  girl 
in  the  usual  little  circle.  His  short  round  nose 
shone.  He  breathed  through  his  mouth.  The 
points  of  his  boots  turned  up.  On  his  waistcoat 
a  big  cornelian  horse's  head  dangled,  just  on  the 
spot  where  one  of  the  buttons  strained.  "He  is 
sure  to  unbutton  that  one  under  the  table." 
Christopher  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  Then  sud- 
denly he  thought  of  something  else;  he  heard 
someone  talk  behind  his  back.  He  began  to  lis- 
ten. 

"I  should  not  mind  giving  him  my  daughter," 
said  Ferdinand  Miiller;  "he  is  wealthy  and  a 
God-fearing  man.  Those  Hosszu  people  are 
lucky.  They  are  completely  ruined.  Miss  So- 
phie isn't  quite  young  neither." 

Christopher  smiled  proudly,  contemptuously. 
They  knew  nothing.  He  sought  for  Sophie's 
glance  to  find  in  it  a  sign  of  their  union,  their 
mutual  possession,  from  which  all  others  were 
excluded. 

But  the  girl  was  no  longer  among  the  dancers. 
Her  absence  made  everything  meaningless.  He 
had  to  think  of  the  quiet  little  room.  "Our 
room"  .  .  .  and  he  went  toward  it.  He  stopped 
dead  in  the  door.  Sophie  was  standing  there 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  119 

now  too,  just  as  before,  on  the  same  spot.  In 
front  of  her  Mr.  Hold.  Christopher  saw  it 
clearly.  He  saw  even  the  tight  button,  the 
carved  horse's  head  on  his  waistcoat.  Yet  it  ap- 
peared to  him  an  awful  hallucination.  The 
horse's  head  dangled  and  touched  Sophie.  Ig- 
nace  Hold  raised  himself  to  the  tip  of  his  toes. 
He  kissed  the  girl's  lips. 

Something  went  amiss  in  Christopher's  brain. 
He  wanted  to  shriek,  but  his  voice  remained  a 
ridiculous  groan.  The  floor  sank  a  little  and 
then  jumped  up  with  a  jerk.  He  felt  sick  as 
if  he  had  been  hit  in  the  stomach.  With  stiff 
jerky  steps  he  re-crossed  the  rooms;  he  looked 
like  a  drowning  man  seeking  for  something  to 
cling  to.  In  the  drawing-room  he  smiled  with 
his  lips  drawn  to  one  side. 

"I  have  a  headache,"  he  said  in  the  ante-room 
to  Miiller  the  chemist. 

When  he  reached  the  street,  he  began  to  run. 
He  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  Danube.  He 
rushed  unconsciously  through  a  narrow  lane. 
Under  the  corner  lamp  he  collided  with  some- 
thing; he  ran  into  a  soft  warm  body.  His  hat 
feU  off. 

"Is  it  you?"  screeched  a  female  voice  and  be- 
gan to  scold. 

"For  whom  do  you  take  me?"  Christopher  was 
painfully  aware  of  the  proximity  of  the  soft  body. 
He  stepped  back  and  picked  his  hat  up. 

The  girl  began  to  laugh  shamelessly.     For  a 


120  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

time  she  scrutinized  Christopher  curiously.  The 
boy's  suit  was  made  of  costly  cloth.  His  collar 
was  clean.  His  necktie  white.  She  tried  to 
appear  genteel. 

"I  was  expecting  my  brother,"  she  whimpered. 
"I  live  here  near  the  fishmarket.  Perhaps  the 
young  gentleman  would  see  me  home?" 

"And  your  brother?" 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  They  were 
already  walking  side  by  side  through  the  narrow 
lane.  They  emerged  under  the  rare  lamps  as 
if  ascending  inclines  of  light.  Then  again  they 
sank  into  darkness.  Above  the  roofs  the  nar- 
row sky  appeared  like  an  inverted  abyss  with 
stars  at  its  bottom.  Here  and  there  a  little  light 
blinked  indifferently,  strangely,  from  a  window. 
Just  like  human  beings  gazing  from  stout,  safe 
walls  on  those  excluded. 

Christopher  felt  hopelessly  alone.  Even  the 
sound  of  the  girl's  steps  seemed  foreign.  The 
darkness  was  empty.  All  was  falsehood  behind 
the  doors  and  windows:  purity,  grace,  kisses. 
.  .  .  Tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

The  girl  stopped  in  front  of  the  door  of  a  low 
house.  Her  expressionless  eyes  looked  into 
Christopher's.  She  saw  that  he  wept.  It  was  a 
familiar  sight  to  her.  At  first  they  cry  and  are 
as  docile  as  dogs.  All  that  alters  later  on. 

She  began  to  balance  her  hips  and  pressed 
against  him. 

"Come  in.  .  .  ."     Her  voice  was  heavy  and 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  121 

like  a  bird  of  prey.  She  unexpectedly  pressed 
her  moist  lips  on  the  boy's  mouth. 

With  disgust  Christopher  thrust  her  back. 
The  girl  fell  against  the  door  and  knocked  her 
head.  But  the  boy  did  not  care.  He  gripped 
his  lips  with  his  hands.  There  .  .  .  just  there, 
where  he  had  felt  Sophie's  kiss  before!  Now 
there  remained  nothing  of  it.  It  had  faded  from 
his  lips.  Something  else  had  taken  its  place. 
.  .  .  He  began  to  run  towards  the  Danube.  In 
his  flight,  he  rubbed  his  hands  against  the  walls 
as  if  to  wipe  off  the  moist  warmth  clinging  to  his 
palms. 

He  pulled  up  sharply  at  the  corner  lamp. 
Again  it  all  rushed  to  his  brain.  He  gave  a  cry 
and  ran  back.  He  wanted  to  strike  the  girl 
again,  strike  her  hard,  to  mete  out  vengeance  for 
his  disgust.  Incredible  insults  came  to  his  mind, 
words  which  till  then  he  did  not  know  he  knew, 
dirty  words  like  those  used  by  the  scum  of  the 
streets.  Words!  They  were  blows  too,  blows 
meant  for  all  womankind. 

The  girl  was  still  standing  in  the  door.  Her 
body  was  leaning  back.  Her  arms  were  raised 
and  she  lazily  put  up  her  hair  dishevelled  by  the 
blow. 

Christopher  stared  at  her  with  wide-open,  mad- 
dening eyes.  He  looked  at  her  movements;  she 
seemed  to  him  a  corpse  which  had  regained  move- 
ment and  had  come  back  to  life.  How  her  bosom 
swelled  under  her  raised  arms.  .  .  .  He  stag- 


122  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

gered  and  whined  and  stretched  out  a  defending 
hand.  „ 

The  girl  snatched  at  the  proffered  hand.  She 
dragged  Christopher  in  through  the  door.  The 
boy  only  felt  that  something  had  bereft  him  of 
his  free  will.  Something  from  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  escape. 

Two  rows  of  dark  doors  appeared  at  the  sides 
of  the  filthy  courtyard.  Fragmentary,  hideous 
laughter  was  audible  behind  one  of  them.  A 
reddish  gleam  filtered  through  a  crack. 

Christopher's  steps  were  insecure  on  the  pro- 
jecting cobbles.  He  stepped  into  the  open  reek- 
ing gutter.  He  shuddered.  He  was  full  'of 
awful  expectation,  strained  fear  and  tears  of  in- 
expressible pain. 

The  girl  did  not  release  his  hand.  She 
dragged  him  like  her  prey.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
courtyard  a  door  creaked.  The  darkness  of  a 
stuffy  room  swallowed  them. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  a  city  night  is  never  fully  asleep.  Some- 
how, it  is  forever  awake.  Here  and  there 
it  opens  its  eye  in  a  window  and  winks.  A 
door  opens  with  a  gaping  mouth.  Steps 
are  about.  Their  echo  strikes  the  walls  of  the 
houses  and  resounds  to  the  neighbouring  lane 
though  no  one  walks  there. 

The  great  river  breathed  heavily,  coolly.  The 
stars  spent  themselves  in  the  firmament.  Chris- 
topher turned  from  the  fishmarket  to  the  em- 
bankment of  the  Danube.  Now  and  then  he 
stopped,  then  he  walked  on  wearily,  unsteadily 
under  the  slumbering  houses.  He  went  on,  full 
of  contempt.  Was  that  all?  So  the  grown-ups' 
great  secret  was  no  more  than  that?  He  pulled 
his  hat  over  his  eyes.  He  was  afraid  of  someone 
looking  into  them. 

Florian  just  opened  the  gate.  His  broom 
swished  with  uniform,  equal  sounds  over  the 
stones  of  the  pavement.  When  the  servant  had 
finished  and  had  retired  to  the  house,  Christopher 
slunk  in  unobserved  by  the  side  entrance. 

He  looked  anxiously  for  a  minute  towards  the 
stairs.  Candle-light  descended  from  above,  step 
by  step.  He  did  not  realize  at  once  what  it 

123 


124  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

meant.  He  only  felt  danger  and  hid  in  the 
wooden  recess  of  the  cellar  stairs^ 

Heavy,  firm  steps  came  downward.  They 
came  irresistibly  and  their  sound  seemed  to  tread 
on  him.  He  crouched  down  trembling.  He  saw 
his  grandfather.  He  was  going  to  work.  He 
carried  a  candle  in  his  hand.  His  shadow  was 
of  superhuman  height  on  the  white  wall.  He 
himself  looked  superhuman  to  the  shrinking  boy. 
Under  the  porch  his  shadow  extended.  It 
reached  the  courtyard.  It  continued  over  the 
wall.  It  must  have  dominated  the  houses  too, 
the  whole  town.  Christopher  looked  after  it ;  he 
could  not  see  its  end  and  in  his  dark  recess  he  felt 
himself  infinitely  small  and  miserable  beside  the 
great  shadow. 

Staggering  with  exhaustion  he  stole  upstairs. 
On  tiptoe.  Along  the  corridor.  One  of  the  big 
stone  steps  was  loose.  He  knew  it  well.  He 
avoided  it  like  a  traitor. 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  before  Anne's  door. 
In  the  clear  tranquillity  he  felt  as  if  some  dirt 
stuck  to  his  face,  his  hand,  his  whole  body;  de- 
grading, shameful  dirt. 

Later  on,  he  lay  for  a  long  time  with  open  eyes 
in  the  dark,  as  he  used  to  in  olden  times  when  he 
was  still  a  child.  The  darkness  was  as  empty  as 
his  heart.  What  he  had  longed  for  was  gone. 
All  that  remained  in  his  blood  was  disgust  and 
fatigue. 

He  was  waked  bv  the  noise  of  the  clatter  of 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  125 

heavy  carts  under  the  porch.  The  steps  of  work- 
men were  going  towards  the  timber  yard.  Ul- 
wing  the  builder  was  not  contented  to  buy 
land  and  houses.  Now  everything  was  cheap. 
He  bought  building  material  from  the  ruined 
contractors.  Enormous  quantities  of  timber, 
so  that  his  firm  might  be  ready  when  work 
started. 

Christopher  took  no  interest  in  this.  At  this 
time  nothing  interested  him.  Even  when  he 
heard  that  Sophie  Hosszu  had  become  the  bride 
of  Ignace  Hold  he  remained  indifferent.  He 
just  thought  of  the  cornelian  horse-head  which 
dangled  and  touched  Sophie. 

A  week  passed  away.  Christopher  spoke 
practically  to  nobody  in  the  house,  but  whenever 
he  addressed  Anne,  his  expression  was  sarcastic, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  vent  on  her  his  contempt  for  all 
that  was  woman.  He  had  never  felt  so  strong 
and  independent  as  now. 

Then  .  .  .  one  night,  like  a  re-opened  wound, 
a  soulless  recollection  struck  him.  The  recol- 
lection was  all  body.  A  female  body. 

The  gloom  of  the  night  became  populated. 
Figures  approached,  more  and  more.  The  dark- 
ness became  gradually  a  huge  cauldron,  in  which 
bare  arms  swarmed,  soft  outlines,  white  shoul- 
ders, vulgar  female  faces. 

Next  day,  Christopher  went  towards  the 
fishmarket.  He  recognised  the  house.  He 
knocked.  And  when  he  came  away  again  from 


126  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

the  girl  he  had  learned  that  for  the  future  he 
would  need  money. 

He  thought  of  his  grandfather,  his  father. 
He  saw  them  working  forever  and  ever  and  they 
never  seemed  to  spend  any  money.  What  were 
they  doing  with  it?  They  must  have  a  lot. 
Strangers  had  told  him  so.  Even  the  girl  with 
the  bestial  eyes  knew  it,  as  well  as  the  others, 
those  with  the  painted  faces  who  winked  in  such 
a  way  that  only  he  saw  it.  How  did  they  know 
him?  What  did  they  want?  Why  do  they 
emerge  from  their  dirty  houses  when  he  passes 
by?  Why  do  they  lie  in  wait  for  him  at  the 
street  corners?  Wait,  offer  themselves  and 
follow  him  obstinately.  .  .  .  And  at  night  when 
he  wants  to  sleep  their  image  comes.  The  room 
gets  crowded.  They  sit  on  his  bed.  They  press 
him  to  give  them  their  pay.  But  whence  is  he 
to  procure  the  money? 

Suddenly  he  saw  his  grandfather  before  him, 
as  he  had  seen  him  from  the  cellar  entrance. 
The  great  shadow  at  early  dawn.  He  shrank. 
He  blushed  for  every  one  of  his  miserable 
thoughts.  It  was  all  dirt.  He  too  was  going 
to  work,  hard,  honestly,  like  the  old  ones.  He 
would  be  kind  to  everybody.  Even  to  Anne  he 
would  be  kind.  And  he  would  never  again  set 
foot  in  the  house  of  the  girl  with  the  bestial  eyes. 

But  when  the  hour  struck,  he  again  became 
restless.  To  restrain  himself,  he  called  to  his 
mind  the  image  of  his  grandfather  going  to  work. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  127 

The  image  faded,  became  powerless  and  the 
frightful,  hideous  force  attracted  him  anew.  On 
the  stairs  he  realised  that  it  was  useless  to  strug- 
gle; the  fishmarket  called  him  irresistibly. 

Downstairs,  in  the  porch,  he  found  himself  un- 
expectedly face  to  face  with  Anne  and  his  fa- 
ther. Anne  had  a  bunch  of  fuchsias  in  her  hand. 

"Come  with  us  to  the  cemetery,  to  Uncle  Se- 
bastian," said  the  girl,  getting  into  the  carriage. 

Only  when  he  was  in  the  street  did  Christopher 
realise  that  he  had  given  no  answer.  He  looked 
after  them. 

The  carriage  was  disappearing  in  the  direction 
of  the  Danube. 

On  the  wooden  pavement  of  the  chain-bridge 
the  sound  of  the  wheels  became  soft.  The  bridge 
swayed  gently,  in  unison  with  the  river  as  if  it 
had  petrified  over  the  Danube  out  of  the  ele- 
ments of  the  water  and  recalled  its  origin. 
Anne  had  the  feeling  that  the  bridge  and  the  river 
were  but  one  and  that  the  carriage  was  floating. 
Before  her  eyes  the  sun  played  on  the  iron  sup- 
ports of  the  bridge  as  if  they  were  the  strings  of 
a  giant  harp.  The  sky  looked  ever  so  high  and 
blue  over  the  castle  hill.  Beyond,  on  the  old 
battlefield,  dense  grass  had  grown  out  of  the 
many  deaths.  Behind  the  acacia  trees  little  dou- 
ble-windowed middle-class  houses  were  visible: 
arched  green  gates,  steep  roofs,  touching  one 
another. 

"How  small  everything  is  here.  .  .  ." 


128  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

John  Hubert  looked  up. 

"One  day  a  city  may  rise  here  too.  Pest  was 
not  even  as  big  as  this  when  ywir  grandfather 
settled  in  it." 

In  front  of  the  carriage  the  geese  fled  with 
much  gabbling  in  all  directions.  Dogs  barked. 
At  the  Devil's  ditch  a  shepherd  played  the  flute. 

Anne  looked  about  bewildered,  thinking  of  an 
old  toy  of  hers.  The  toy  was  a  farm.  The  good- 
wife  was  taller  than  the  stable  and  stood  on  a 
round  disc.  Trees,  geese  and  the  gooseherd  all 
had  round  foundations.  Instinctively  she  looked 
at  the  shepherd's  feet  and  then  laughed  aloud. 
The  whole  place  seemed  unreal  to  her. 

Farther  on  in  Christina-town  the  houses  sepa- 
rated. They  stood  alone,  broad,  gaudy,  like 
peasant  women,  surrounded  by  kitchen  gardens. 

At  the  communal  farm,  they  left  the  carriage. 
They  continued  on  foot  towards  the  military 
cemetery.  The  citizens  of  Buda  had  buried 
Uncle  Sebastian  there. 

"Why?"  asked  Anne.    "He  was  not  a  soldier." 

"But  he  was  a  hero,"  answered  John  Hubert, 
though  he  had  never  been  quite  able  to  under- 
stand Uncle  Sebastian's  death.  His  father  kept 
silence  about  the  details.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
citizens  in  the  castle  told  confused  stories  of  great 
deeds.  He  liked  to  believe  what  they  said  be- 
cause it  flattered  him.  And  whenever  the  ex- 
ploits of  the  clockmaker  were  mentioned,  he  ob- 
served modestly,  but  with  satisfaction,  that  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  129 

hero  was  one  of  his  close  relations.  He  grew 
used  to  the  honour  thrust  on  him.  He  bore  it 
with  erected  head  as  he  wore  his  high  collars. 

Anne  remembered  something.  Three  years 
ago,  her  grandfather  had  said  to  her,  looking 
fixedly  into  her  eyes:  "The  citizens  of  the  castle 
consider  Uncle  Sebastian  a  hero.  They  may  be 
mistaken.  You  are  the  only  person  in  the  world 
who  is  sure  not  to  be  mistaken  if  you  believe 
him  to  be  one."  She  remembered  it  well.  He 
said  no  more.  But  from  that  day  he,  whom  till 
then  she  had  merely  loved,  became  also  the  object 
of  her  admiration  and  the  hero  of  all  around  her. 

The  trees  grew  between  the  graves  like  a  wood, 
a  wood  where  people  were  buried.  Here  it  was 
not  the  graves  that  decided  the  trees'  position; 
they  had  to  take  their  places  as  the  wood  decided. 
And  life  here  drew  abundant  strength  from 
death's  rich  harvest.  In  many  places  the  stone 
crosses  had  fallen  or  sunk  into  the  moss.  A 
weeping  willow  drooped  over  a  crypt.  It  bent 
over  it  like  a  sylvan  woman,  whose  green  loose 
hair  covered  a  face  which  was  doubtless  weeping 
in  the  shade. 

Anne  prayed  for  a  long  time  at  Uncle  Sebas- 
tian's grave.  Then  they  went  on  in  silence. 
Around  some  graves  the  gilt  spearheads  of  low 
railings  sparkled  in  the  grass.  Railings,  fron- 
tiers, even  around  the  dead,  to  separate  those 
who  loved  each  other,  to  isolate  those  whom  no- 
body loved.  But  Anne  felt  hopeful  that  in  the 


130  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

ground,  underneath  the  obstructions  erected  by 
the  living,  the  dead  might  stretch  friendly  hands 
to  each  other. 

On  the  hillside  the  graves  ceased.  Death  van- 
ished from  between  the  trees,  life  alone  continued. 
The  wood  was  their  only  companion  in  the  sum- 
mer's quietude. 

On  the  edge  of  a  small  glen  a  straw  hat  lay 
on  the  grass.  They  looked  up  surprised.  A 
bare-headed  young  man  stood  in  the  glen  turn- 
ing towards  the  sun.  The  approaching  steps 
attracted  his  attention.  His  eyes  were  brown. 
His  gaze  seemed  darker  than  his  eyes.  He  ap- 
peared vexed.  Then  his  eyes  fell  on  Anne.  Her 
small,  girlish  face  tried  hard  to  remain  serious, 
but  her  eyes  were  already  laughing  ironically  and 
her  lips  were  on  the  verge  of  doing  so.  The 
stranger  felt  embarrassed. 

John  Hubert  Ulwing  raised  his  beaver,  ruffled 
by  the  boughs.  He  asked  for  the  footpath  lead- 
ing to  the  communal  farm. 

The  young  man  indicated  the  direction.  His 
handsome,  manly  hand  was  elegant  and  narrow. 
He  wore  an  old  seal  ring  with  a  green  stone.  He 
walked  a  few  steps  with  the  Ulwings.  When 
they  reached  the  footpath,  he  bowed  in  silence. 

Anne  nodded.  The  waves  of  her  soft  shep- 
herdess hat  of  Florentine  straw  threw  for  an 
instant  a  shadow  over  her  eyes.  She  was  rather 
sorry  the  footpath  had  been  so  near.  The  steps 
behind  her  were  already  receding.  She  bent 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  131 

down  and  picked  a  flower.  Only  now  did 
she  notice  how  many  flowers  there  were  in  the 
wood. 

She  hung  her  hat  over  her  arm.  One  more, 
one  more  .  .  .  and  the  bunch  grew  in  her  hand. 
A  Canterbury  bell  gave  itself  up,  root  and  all. 
The  roots,  like  infinitely  small  bird-claws,  held 
on  to  the  moist  soil.  For  the  first  time  Anne 
smelt  the  perfume  of  the  earth.  And  when  the 
carriage  entered  the  porch  between  the  two  pil- 
lar men,  it  struck  Anne  that  this  was  the  first  oc- 
casion on  which  wild  flowers  had  come  into  the 
old  house. 

She  met  Christopher  on  the  staircase.  Her 
brother  held  his  head  rigid  and  seemed  to  be  lis- 
tening. She  too  heard  her  grandfather's  voice. 
It  came  from  far  away,  from  the  timber  yard. 

Amidst  heaps  of  dry  chips  a  carpenter  had  lit 
a  pipe.  The  builder  was  just  then  inspecting 
the  yard.  He  perceived  the  bluish  little  cloud  of 
smoke  in  the  air  at  once.  The  blood  rushed  to 
his  head.  He  threatened  the  man  with  his  fists. 
The  carpenter,  awestruck,  knocked  his  pipe  out 
and  stamped  on  the  burning  tobacco.  Next  to 
him,  a  journeyman  began  to  split  a  fine  big  oak 
beam;  in  his  fright,  he  deviated  from  the  right 
angle. 

Old  Ulwing's  face  became  dark  red  with  an- 
ger. He  pushed  the  man  aside  and  snatched  the 
axe  out  of  his  hand. 

"Look  here!"  he  shouted  in  a  voice  that  made 


132  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

all  the  men  surrounding  him  stop  work.  Then, 
like  a  captive  bird  of  steel,  with  a  swing  the  axe 
rose  in  his  grip.  The  chips  flew.  The  oak  rec- 
ognised its  master  and  split  at  his  powerful  will. 

Christopher  Ulwing  forgot  everything.  His 
chest  panted  and  inhaled  the  savour  of  the  oak. 
The  inherited  ancestral  instincts  and  movements 
revived;  though  displaced  for  a  long  time  by 
strenuous  intellectual  work  and  rendered  super- 
fluous by  long  prosperity,  the  gigantic  strength 
of  his  youth  awoke  again.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  whole  world  but  the  timber  of  the  oak  and 
himself.  For  a  moment  the  men  got  a  glimpse  of 
the  great  carpenter  whose  former  strength  was 
the  subject  of  endless  and  ever  increasing  tales, 
told  by  the  old  masters  of  the  craft  to  the  young- 
er generation. 

They  saw  him  for  one  moment,  then  something 
happened.  The  raised  axe  fell  out  of  his  power- 
ful hand  and  dropped  helplessly  through  the  air. 
It  fell  to  the  ground.  The  builder  grasped  his 
forehead  as  if  it  had  been  struck  by  the  axe  and 
he  began  to  sway  slowly,  terribly,  like  an  old 
tower  whose  foundation  gives  way.  Nobody 
dared  touch  him.  Meanwhile  the  workmen 
stared  in  amazement. 

Fiiger  was  the  first  to  regain  his  presence  of 
mind.  He  tendered  his  shoulder  to  his  chief. 

John  Hubert  ran  as  pale  as  death  across  the 
yard. 

Supported  by  two  powerful  journeymen  car- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  133 

penters  the  master  builder  staggered  along.  His 
bent  arms  were  round  the  men's  necks.  His  el- 
bows were  higher  than  his  shoulders.  The  face 
of  the  old  man  looked  sallow  and  masklike  be- 
tween the  youthful  faces  of  the  men,  crimson  with 
their  effort. 

"Not  there,"  he  said  scarcely  audibly  when 
they  tried  to  drag  him  to  his  bed  in  his  room. 
He  pointed  with  his  chin  to  the  window.  They 
pushed  an  armchair  in  front  of  it. 

Soon  the  shrivelled  face  of  Gardos,  the  proto- 
medicus,  appeared  in  the  door.  When  he  left 
the  room,  he  made  the  gesture  of  respectful  sub- 
mission which  is  only  known  to  priests  and  phy- 
sicians. Priests  make  it  at  the  altar,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  physicians  when  they  face  death. 

"The  children.  .  .  ."  The  builder  made  an 
effort  to  turn  round.  His  halting  look  went 
slowly  round  the  room. 

Christopher  clung  trembling  to  the  edge  of 
the  table.  He  had  a  feeling  that  if  this  great 
searching  glance  were  to  find  him,  it  would  strike 
upon  his  pupils  and  press  his  eyeballs  inwards. 
Everything  shrank  in  him.  His  body  wanted 
to  vanish  into  space. 

So  death  was  like  this!  He  had  never  seen 
it  yet,  though  he  had  guessed  that  it  hovered 
everywhere  and  whispered  fear  into  men's  ears. 
It  had  whispered  to  him  too  when  he  was  a  child 
and  he  had  to  hide  under  his  blankets  or  run  out 
of  the  room  when  the  candle  went  out.  But  then 


134  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

he  did  not  yet  understand  the  sibilant  voice  and 
his  fear  went  astray  among  phantoms,  deep  si- 
lence and  darkness.  For  all  that;  it  had  always 
been  death. 

He  saw  the  others  near  him  in  a  haze.  His 
father,  Fiiger,  Gemming  and  Feuerlein.  The 
pointed  long  face  of  Tini  was  there  too.  It 
moved  correctly,  with  an  appearance  of  unreal- 
ity, between  the  washstand  and  the  armchair.  It 
came  and  went.  A  wet  towel  in  her  hand.  In 
the  corridor  the  workmen.  Subdued,  heavy 
steps.  Changing,  frightened  faces  in  the  door. 
One  pressed  against  the  other,  as  if  looking  into 
a  pit. 

Suddenly  he  perceived  Anne.  How  pale  she 
was.  Yet  she  moved  calmly.  Now  she  knelt 
down  near  the  armchair  and  her  face  was  clasped 
by  two  waxy  hands.  A  grey  head  bent  over  her 
and  gave  her  a  long  look,  a  look  insufferably  pro- 
longed. If  he  were  never  to  release  her?  If 
he  were  to  take  her  with  him? 

Christopher  sobbed.  Someone  pushed  him 
forward.  Now  he  too  was  kneeling  near  the 
armchair.  Now,  now  .  .  .  The  fading  eyes 
had  found  him.  Two  hands  of  wax  reached 
searchingly  into  the  air,  the  fingers  stretched, 
tried  to  grasp  something. 

The  boy  fell  to  the  floor  without  a  sound.  He 
was  not  aware  that  he  was  carried  out  of  the 
room. 

Slowly  the  room  became  dark.     The  steps  of 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  135 

the  priest  interrupted  the  solemn  silence  of  the 
corridor.  Steps  came  and  went.  The  smell  of 
incense  pervaded  the  porch.  The  choir-boy's 
bell  rang  along  the  street.  He  rang  as  if  he 
were  playing  ball  with  the  sounds  while  one  house 
was  telling  another  the  news: 

"Ulwing,  the  master  builder,  is  dying.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  throng  on  the  staircase.     The 

heavy,  syncopated  breathing  of  the  builder  was 

audible  in  the  corridor.     Upstairs  in  the  room, 

anxious,  tearful  faces  leant  over  the  armchair. 

Since  the  priest  had  gone,  Christopher  Ulwing 
had  opened  his  eyes  no  more.  He  was  speech- 
less and  in  the  silence  his  brain  fought  desper- 
ately against  annihilation.  It  was  too  early. 
He  was  not  yet  ready.  He  rebelled  against  it. 
So  many  plans.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  say  some- 
thing. He  sought  for  words,  but  could  find 
none.  .  .  .  The  words  leading  to  men  were  lost. 
.  .  .  Colours  appeared  suddenly  between  his 
eyes  and  the  lids,  hard  splints  of  colour,  which 
seemed  to  drop  into  them,  pressing  on  his  eye- 
balls. Yellow  spots.  Black  rings.  Red  zig- 
zags. Then  he  felt  a  pleasant,  restful  weariness, 
just  like  long  ago,  when  he  was  a  child  and  his 
mother  carried  him  in  her  arms  into  his  bed. 
And  Brother  Sebastian  .  .  .  they  wandered  to- 
gether, quietly,  without  fatigue.  ...  A  town 
becomes  visible,  church-towers,  houses;  much 
waste  land,  on  which  he  is  going  to  build.  It  is 
morning  and  the  church  bells  ring. 


136  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

John  Hubert  bent  over  his  father.  He  was 
still  breathing.  It  seemed  that  his  lips  moved. 

"It  is  morning !"  The  builder'said  that  so  loud 
that  they  all  looked  to  the  window. 

Above  the  further  end  of  the  timber  yard  a 
wonderful  gleam  appeared.  Fiiger  looked  at 
his  watch:  it  was  not  yet  midnight. 

The  gleam  spread  every  minute.  Red  dust 
and  sparks;  at  first  one  or  two,  then  more  and 
more. 

tThe  little  book-keeper  began  to  perspire.  He 
recalled  all  of  a  sudden  to  his  mind  a  man  with  a 
leather  apron,  knocking  his  pipe  out  and  tramp- 
ling on  the  burning  tobacco.  Now  he  remem- 
bered clearly  the  workman's  heavy  boots  in  the 
sawdust.  With  desperate  self-accusation  he  re- 
membered that  after  that  he  had  thought  no  more 
of  the  matter.  .  .  . 

A  man  ran  through  the  courtyard. 

"Fire!" 

The  cry  was  repeated,  every  corner  of  the 
house  re-echoed  it.  Under  the  steep  roof  the 
walls  became  orange.  An  unnatural  red  glow 
spread.  Through  the  window  panes  light 
streamed  suddenly  into  the  rooms. 

"Fire!" 

Now  they  were  shouting  it  in  the  street,  per- 
sistently, sharply.  Carts  were  thundering  to- 
wards the  Danube. 

John  Hubert  rushed  to  the  door.  At  the 
threshold  it  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  fall. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  137 

He  staggered  and  turned  back.  He  began  to 
calculate,  perspiring  with  fear.  His  brain  added 
and  multiplied  confusedly,  intensely.  The  loss 
was  gigantic.  The  quantity  of  timber  and  build- 
ing material  was  enormous.  The  firm  might  be 
shaken  by  it.  Helplessly  he  stared  at  his  father. 
But  in  the  armchair  there  sat  but  the  ghost  of  an 
old  man,  smiling  like  a  mask  into  the  light  of  the 
conflagration.  Nothing  more  could  be  expected 
from  him.  His  knees  began  to  shake. 

Anne  was  worn  out  and  looked  wearily  to- 
wards the  window.  She  did  not  dare  to  move  her 
head.  Something  was  giving  way  behind  her 
brow. 

Black  figures  were  starting  up  on  the  walls 
of  the  yard.  They  pumped  water  on  the  fire. 
People  were  standing  on  the  roofs  of  the  oppo- 
site houses  too. 

Sooty  horrors  staggered  in  the  air  near  the  tar 
boiler.  A  suffocating  smell  of  burning  poured 
through  the  windows.  The  conflagration  spread 
with  awful  speed.  It  raced  towards  the  wall  of 
the  back  garden. 

A  burning  pile  collapsed  in  the  timber  yard. 

In  the  ominous  light  of  the  rooms  Tini  and 
the  maidservants  were  gesticulating  madly  before 
the  open  cupboards. 

Anne  leaned  against  the  wall.  "They  want 
to  abandon  the  house,  they  want  to  flee." 

"Save  it,  save  it!"  she  shrieked  with  a  bloodless 
face. 


138  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Augustus  Fiiger  dropped  panting  into  the 
room.  He  brought  news.  Now  he  was  gone. 
Now  he  was  back  again. 

The  fire  had  reached  the  roof  of  the  toolshed. 
The  air  quivered  with  heat.  Hoarse  crackling, 
spasmodic  hissing,  mingled  with  the  cries  of  many 
human  voices. 

The  half-closed  eyes  of  the  builder  rarely 
moved.  He  heard,  he  saw  nothing  that  hap- 
pened around  him.  He  was  mysteriously  dis- 
tant from  all  that. 

Under  the  window  the  wasted  leaves  shriv- 
elled up  with  a  dry  crackling  sound.  The  pump 
in  the  courtyard  creaked  uniformly.  A  fire  en- 
gine started  to  spray  the  hot  walls. 

In  that  instant  a  heavy,  clipped  voice  floated 
through  the  air,  like  a  round  disc  of  metal.  .  .  . 

Something  passed  over  the  face  of  Christopher 
Ulwing. 

"The  church  bells!  It  is  morning  and  the 
church  bells  ring." 

All  looked  at  him  awestricken.  The  hands  of 
the  builder  gripped  the  armchair.  John  Hubert 
and  Florian  supported  him  on  either  side. 

"Let  me  go!"  That  was  the  shadow  of  his 
old  voice.  He  did  not  know  that  nobody  obeyed 
him  any  more. 

"To  build  ...  to  build  .  .  ."  His  chin 
went  all  to  one  side  and  his  body  straightened  it- 
self with  a  frightful  effort.  The  dying  Chris- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  139 

topher  Ulwing  towered  by  a  whole  head  above 
the  living.  .  .  . 

Then,  as  if  something  inside  him  had  given  him 
a  twist,  he  turned  half  way  round.  John  Hubert 
and  the  servant  bent  under  his  weight.  In  their 
arms  the  builder  was  dead.  He  had  died  stand- 
ing and  the  gleam  of  the  burning  oak  remained 
in  his  broken  eyes. 

New  water  carts  arrived  below.  Bugles 
shrieked  along  the  streets.  Ladders  climbed  into 
the  red  air. 

Long,  panting  snakes  began  to  work:  the 
pumps  spat  flying  water  among  the  flames.  But 
the  fire  retreated  reluctantly,  slowly  .  .  .  grad- 
ually it  collapsed  with  a  hiss. 

The  alarm  bell  of  Leopold's  Town  went  on 
shouting  its  clamour,  asking  for  help,  calling, 
complaining.  All  parishes  responded.  The 
whole  of  Pest  was  alarmed.  Sooty  debris  floated 
in  the  air  rent  by  the  tolling  of  bells.  Smoke 
covered  the  yellow  walls.  The  water  from  the 
pumps  flew  down  the  window  panes. 

In  that  night  the  old  house  became  really  old. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ULWING  the  builder  was  carried  out  of 
the  old  house  and  the  pillar-men  looked 
into  the  hearse.  Following  behind,  the 
mitred  abbot,  lighted  wax  candles,  sing- 
ing priests;  the  Mayor,  the  Town  Councillors, 
the  flags  of  the  guilds;  a  big  dark  mass  moving 
slowly  under  the  summer  sky. 

The  whole  town  followed  Christopher  Lowing 
bare-headed  and  wherever  he  passed  on  his  jour- 
ney, the  bells  of  many  churches  tolled.  Then  the 
door  of  the  house  was  closed.  The  great  master, 
the  great  silence,  remained  within. 

It  was  on  the  day  after  the  funeral  that  the 
new  head  of  the  Ulwing  business  took  his  father's 
seat  for  the  first  time  at  the  writing-desk  in  front 
of  the  barred  ground-floor  window.  The  house 
was  still  full  of  the  scent  of  incense,  faded  flowers 
and  the  cold  smoke  of  the  conflagration. 

Nobody  moved  at  that  early  hour.  John  Hu- 
bert was  quite  alone.  Several  times  he  put  his 
hands  quite  unnecessarily  up  to  his  necktie,  then, 
as  if  he  had  been  pushed  forward,  he  fell  over 
the  table  and  wept  silently  for  a  long  time.  He 
sat  up  only  when  he  heard  steps  in  the  neighbour- 
ing room.  While  wiping  his  eyes,  he  noticed 

140 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  141 

that  the  china  inkstand  was  not  in  its  usual  place. 
The  sand  had  been  put  on  the  wrong  side  too. 
He  made  a  mental  effort  and  replaced  every- 
thing as  he  used  to  see  it  in  his  father's  time. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  He  remem- 
bered that  this  little  door,  through  which  people 
had  come  for  decades,  respectful,  bowing,  pale 
and  imploring  to  the  powerful  Christopher  Ul- 
wing,  now  led  to  him.  He  raised  his  head  with 
confidence,  but  only  for  an  instant;  then,  as  if 
frightened  by  what  life  was  going  to  demand 
from  him,  he  lowered  it  again. 

Augustus  Fiiger  stood  in  front  of  him.  He 
had  a  parcel  of  papers  under  his  arm. 

John  Hubert  Ulwing  hesitated.  He  would 
now  have  to  make  decisions,  unaided,  all  by  him- 
self. 

"These  matters  have  all  been  settled  according 
to  the  orders  of  the  late  master,"  said  the  little 
book-keeper,  and  in  his  crinkled  face  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  went  down  like  those  of  a  child 
ready  to  cry. 

Absent-mindedly  John  Hubert  signed  his 
name.  He  wiped  his  pen  and  stuck  it  into  the 
glass  full  of  shot,  as  his  father  was  wont  to  do. 

And  so  it  was  thenceforth.  The  business  went 
its  old  way  with  the  old  movements  though 
around  it  little  by  little  the  world  changed.  New 
men,  new  businesses  rose.  The  head  of  the  Ul- 
wing firm  did  not  change  anything  and  exter- 
nally his  very  life  became  the  same  as  his  father's. 


142  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

He  seemed  to  age  daily.  When  he  rested,  he 
closed  his  eyes. 

The  damage  caused  by  the  fire  and  the  last  bad 
years  of  business  weighed  heavily  on  his  shoul- 
ders. He  had  to  grapple  with  the  liquidation  of 
grandiose  purchases,  various  charges,  old  con- 
tracts, and  many  other  problems.  These  were 
all  clear  and  simple  to  the  old  builder;  they  re- 
mained mysterious  to  him.  Their  solution  was 
lost  for  ever  with  the  cool,  mathematical  mind  of 
the  builder.  With  his  bony,  large,  ruthless  hands 
the  power  of  the  house  of  Ulwing  had  departed. 

John  Hubert  tried  to  remedy  all  troubles  by 
economy.  That  was  all  his  individuality  contrib- 
uted to  the  business.  Cheap  tools.  Cheap 
methods.  He  even  restricted  the  household  ex- 
penses and  every  Sunday  afternoon  looked 
through  Mamsell  Tini's  books  himself.  This 
done,  he  called  his  son  into  the  green  room  and 
spoke  of  economy. 

Christopher  sat  with  tired  eyes,  bored,  in  the 
armchair  and  paid  no  attention.  Absent-mind- 
edly he  extracted  the  big-headed  pin  from  the 
crocheted  lace  cover,  and  then,  quite  forgetting 
how  it  came  into  his  hand,  threw  it  under  the 
sofa. 

Netti  brought  the  coffee  on  the  tray  with  the 
parrot  pattern,  and  lit  the  paraffin  lamp.  All  of 
a  sudden  Christopher  was  there  no  more. 

He  did  not  care  any  more  for  Gabriel  Hosszu, 
nor  for  little  Gal.  He  went  to  the  technical 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  143 

high-school.  He  had  an  intrigue  with  an  actress, 
and  the  noble  youths  from  the  country  estates, 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  in  the  private 
school,  were  his  friends.  He  spoke  with  them 
cynically  about  women.  In  a  back  room  of  the 
"Hunter's  Horn"  Inn,  he  watched  them  for 
hours  playing  cards. 

He  tried  it  one  day  himself.  He  lost.  .  .  . 
He  wanted  to  win  his  money  back.  His  pocket 
was  empty,  his  groping  hand  only  touched  his 
tobacco-box.  He  snatched  it  away.  His  grand- 
father had  kept  snuff  in  it.  He  was  ashamed  of 
the  idea  that  had  occurred  to  him,  and  he  thrust 
the  box  back  into  his  pocket. 

A  man  with  thin  lips  asked  him  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table: 

"Well?" 

Christopher  reached  again  into  his  pocket. 
"I  shall  win  it  all  back  and  never  gamble  again." 
He  drew  out  the  box  and  banged  it  on  the  table. 
The  knock  roused  the  box.  In  an  old-fashioned, 
chirping  way,  it  sang  the  little  song  which  it  had 
learned  about  a  hundred  years  ago  from  Ulwing 
the  goldsmith.  It  sang  it  just  in  the  same  way 
but  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  it.  When  the 
music  was  over,  Christopher  had  lost  his  game. 

In  the  stifling  cigar  smoke  his  breath  became 
heavy.  Voices.  Sickly,  wine-reeking  heat.  A 
long  grey  hand  removed  the  snuff-box  from  the 
table. 

Christopher  rose.     He  just  heard  someone  say 


144  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

behind  his  back:  "He  plays  like  a  gentleman." 
He  passed  wearily  beside  the  tables.  He  seemed 
indifferent.  Only  in  the  street  did  he  realise 
what  had  happened  and  his  heart  shrank  with  the 
anguish  of  deep  sorrow.  Was  he  sorry  for  him- 
self or  for  the  loss  of  the  tobacco-box?  He  didn't 
know.  It  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather  and 
now  a  stranger  owned  it.  ...  How  often  had 
he  seen  it  in  those  bony  old  hands,  which  had  been 
raised  for  a  blessing  when  they  were  stretched 
towards  him  in  the  hour  of  death. 

He  shuddered  with  torture  and  fear.  "I  am 
a  scoundrel" ;  he  repeated  this  several  times  so  as 
to  shame  himself.  Then  he  made  a  solemn  vow 
that  he  would  never  touch  cards  any  more. 
Never,  never,  again.  .  .  .  This  calmed  him  to 
some  extent. 

When  he  drew  out  his  new  leather  case  next 
day,  he  noticed  that  Anne  followed  him  with  her 
eyes.  He  observed  this  several  times.  Impa- 
tient anger  rose  in  him. 

His  father  left  the  room.  Anne  turned  to 
him. 

"Have  you  lost  it?" 

"Of  course  I  have!"  Christopher  was  glad  to 
be  able  to  speak  out.  He  felt  relieved,  he  felt 
as  though  the  responsibility  for  the  whole  thing 
were  lifted  from  his  shoulders. 

Anne  hung  her  head. 

"Do  you  know  where  you  lost  it?  .  .  .Yes? 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  145 

.  .  ."  Her  eyes  shone.  "What  if  you  promised 
a  reward  to  the  finder?" 

"That  requires  money,"  said  Christopher 
sadly. 

Anne  ran  to  her  cupboard.  She  took  a  small 
box  from  under  her  linen. 

"It  is  not  much,  just  my  presents.  It  has 
been  accumulating  slowly  for  a  long  time.  Lit- 
tle Chris,  go  quickly.  It  will  be  all  right. 
Promise  the  whole  lot." 

Christopher  was  pleased  and  ashamed  at  the 
same  time.  He  reached  out  for  Anne's  hand. 
But  the  young  girl  snatched  it  back.  She 
stretched  herself  up  to  the  big  boy  and  tendered 
her  cheek.  Christopher  kissed  it  and  ran  away. 

Anne  looked  after  him.  How  she  loved  her 
brother!  Now,  perhaps  Christopher  understood 
all  that  she  could  not  tell  him.  He  lived  for  ever 
among  men  and  men  are  ashamed  of  feeling.  To 
hide  it  they  whistle  and  look  out  of  the  window. 
She  too  had  been  brought  up  with  these  ideas. 
She  was  taught  that  feeling  is  deep  and  great 
only  so  long  as  it  keeps  mute  and  becomes  at  once 
petty  and  ridiculous  when  it  raises  its  voice;  so 
pitiably  petty  that  it  makes  one  blush  and  run 
out  of  the  room.  It  must  never  be  shown.  Nor 
did  the  others  in  the  house  ever  display  it,  nobody 
but  Uncle  Sebastian,  long,  long  ago.  And  yet 
how  intensely  she  longed  now  and  then  for  some- 
body who  would  show  her  affection. 


146  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  her  mother's  portrait. 
If  only  she  would  drop  that  painted  rose  from 
her  hand!  If  only  for  once  «ihe  would  caress 
her!  Only  once,  one  single  once,  when  she  was 
alone  in  the  room  ...  so  lonely  .  .  .  always 
alone.  Since  Adam  Walter  had  gone  away,  no- 
body remained  with  whom  she  could  talk.  A 
new  song,  a  new  book  came  now  and  then  from 
him  in  distant  Weimar.  Then  silence  again  for 
weeks. 

Aimlessly  Anne  went  down  the  stairs,  across 
the  garden  to  the  great  wall.  Since  the  fire  the 
timber  yard  had  been  removed  to  the  end  of  the 
town.  Behind  the  fencing,  where  in  olden  times 
rude  strong  men  in  leather  aprons  worked  the 
timber,  nothing  was  left  but  waste  ground. 

The  memories  of  her  young  life  came  slowly, 
dimly  at  first,  then  they  raced  in  vivid  crowds. 

Sunday  afternoons.  Stories  and  Uncle  Se- 
bastian. The  scent  of  newly-hewn  oak  logs  and 
her  grandfather.  Music,  dreams,  her  mother's 
portrait.  That  was  all.  Years  .  .  .  years  of 
childhood. 

She  sat  down  on  the  seat  round  the  apple  tree 
and  leaned  her  head  against  the  tree's  trunk. 

The  sky  was  green  between  the  leaves.  The 
apple  tree  was  in  blossom.  Her  grandfather 
Jorg's  shop  came  to  her  mind.  And  a  voice  and 
a  song.  How  confused  all  this  was.  She 
thought  suddenly  of  two  feverish  eyes,  but  some- 
how saw  them  in  Adam  Walter's  face.  Then 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  147 

Mrs.  Walter.  .  .  .  The  voice  of  Bertha  Baj- 
moczy  and  railings  around  men.  Small  iron 
railings  even  in  the  cemetery.  They  ceased  on 
a  hill-side.  A  glen  between  the  trees.  She 
might  turn  her  face  towards  it.  And  from  the 
foot-path  why  should  she  not  turn  back,  just 
simply  look  behind  her  without  any  cause,  when 
there  was  nobody  left  in  the  glen.  .  .  . 

She  looked  up.  She  felt  eyes  resting  on  her: 
Otto  Fiiger  was  standing  in  the  bushes.  From 
her  childhood  she  had  known  this  shifty,  obsti- 
nate look.  It  was  everywhere,  over  her  father's 
writing-table,  in  the  porch,  sometimes  even  at 
night,  outside,  under  the  window. 

The  expression  of  the  short-sighted  eyes  be- 
came at  once  persistent  and  obsequious.  Anne 
would  have  liked  to  cast  it  from  her.  She 
nodded  and  went  into  the  house. 

In  the  evening,  she  sat  up  late  for  Christopher. 
He  did  not  come.  This  night  seemed  longer  to 
her  than  any  others,  it  whispered  to  her  anxious, 
fearful  premonitions. 

Next  day,  Christopher  confessed  to  his  sister 
that  he  had  gambled  and  lost.  And  Anne  also 
learned  that  she  would  never  see  her  grand- 
father's snuff-box  again. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  still  spring,  but  summer  had  already 
touched  the  Danube  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  river  the  Palatine  Island  sprang  into 
bloom  like  a  floating  forest. 

Anne  had  no  presentiment  that  she  went  to 
meet  her  own  summer  when  one  day  she  walked 
on  the  bank  of  the  Danube  towards  the  island. 
Christopher,  who  accompanied  her,  had,  as  usual, 
been  late.  The  party  they  had  arranged  to  join 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  They  remained  alone 
on  the  shore,  deliberating  for  a  short  time,  and 
then  made  signs  to  the  ferryman.  On  the  other 
shore  a  boat  moved  under  the  boughs  which 
spread  over  the  water  and  was  rowed  slowly 
across  the  river. 

People  from  town  came  to  the  pier.  Anne 
heard  approaching  voices.  One  person  pro- 
nounced her  name;  another  repeated  it  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Anne  Ulwing.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  round  Jreluctantly.  Christopher 
raised  his  hat. 

A  boyish-looking  slender  girl  came  towards 
them  along  the  grey  pier. 

"Don't  you  recognise  me?"  she  asked  Anne. 

148 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  149 

"Of  course  it  is  a  long  time  since  we  met.  Do 
you  remember?" 

Now  she  remembered:  it  was  Martha  Illey. 

"The  dancing  lessons.  .  .  ." 

These  words  set  Anne's  eyebrows  rigid  and 
hard.  Martha  Illey  turned  quickly  sideways: 
"Thomas!"  and  introduced  her  brother. 

Anne  saw  a  refined  manly  hand  in  the  sun.  It 
wore  an  old-fashioned  seal  ring  with  a  green 
stone.  She  looked  up,  but  the  man's  face  seemed 
quite  strange  to  her.  Then  the  recollection  of 
her  solitary  meditations  vibrated  through  her 
and  scared  her.  She  felt  that  she  was  blushing. 
Confusion  passed  over  her  countenance  like  a 
cloud.  It  was  already  gone.  Her  charming 
smile  raised  the  corners  of  her  mouth  ironi- 
cally. 

Thomas  Illey  laughed  too  but  did  not  look 
quite  sure  of  himself.  The  sun,  reflected  from 
the  water,  trembled  in  his  eyes.  He  turned  to 
Christopher. 

"Your  sister  and  I  are  not  strangers  to  each 
other.  She  caught  me  one  day  when  I  went  out 
of  town  in  search  of  sunlight,  sunshine,  trees  and 
earth.  Even  then  she  made  fun  of  me.  .  .  ." 

Underneath  the  pier  the  ferryman  landed. 
Then  the  boat  started  with  them  towards  the  is- 
land. Anne  felt  that  all  her  troubles  had  re- 
mained on  shore  and  that  she  was  light  and  free. 
The  little  craft  floated  in  molten  gold  and  the 
oars  stirred  up  gold  too.  And  while  the  water 


150  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

carried  her,  it  also  carried  her  thoughts  away 
through  its  wonderful  glitter. 

"I  like  to  hear  the  Danube,"  said  Martha  Illey. 
"Do  you  remember,  Tom?  We  used  to  listen 
to  it  at  home.  It  murmurs  just  like  the  woods  of 
Ille." 

"I  too  love  the  Danube,"  said  Anne's  veiled 
voice.  "My  ancestors  come  from  somewhere 
near  its  sources.  From  the  great  forests.  ..." 

Christopher  thought  uncomfortably  of  wood- 
cutters and,  embarrassed,  kicked  his  sister  to  stop 
her  from  saying  any  more. 

Anne  smiled. 

"They  came  thence,  down  on  the  banks  of  the 
river,  as  if  the  Danube  had  called  them."  She 
reflected  for  an  instant  and  then  added  quietly: 
"I  have  never  yet  heard  the  murmur  of  forests. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  river  sings  something. 
Always  the  same  thing  and  when  it  comes  to  the 
end  of  its  song  nobody  can  remember  the  begin- 
ning." 

Christopher  looked  attentively  at  the  cut  of 
Illey's  clothes.  Where  did  his  tailor  live? 
Then  he  observed  his  narrow  shoes  and  hid  his 
own  feet  under  the  seat.  He  began  to  copy 
Illey's  gestures  carefully.  He  also  imitated  the 
modulation  of  his  voice.  He  seemed  so  con- 
fident of  himself  and  so  distinguished. 

Illey  looked  over  the  water  while  he  spoke: 

"Who  knows  why  this  river  is  called  the  Blue 
Danube?  It  does  not  carry  the  sky  but  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  151 

earth.  How  it  turns  up  the  soil  and  takes  its 
greenish-yellow  colour  from  it.  .  .  ."  He  leant 
over  the  side  of  the  little  boat ;  the  water  splashed 
up  against  the  boat's  prow.  "It  reminds  you  of 
the  murmur  of  forests  and  of  music,"  he  said 
smilingly,  "to  me  it  sounds  like  cattle  drinking." 

"Cattle?"  Anne  could  not  help  laughing. 

They  reached  the  island.  The  ferryman 
caught  hold  of  the  bough  of  a  willow.  The  keel 
of  the  boat  slid  creaking  into  the  gravelly  shore. 

The  drooping  twigs  brushed  Anne's  face. 
She  caught  at  them  with  her  mouth  and  a  green 
leaf  remained  between  her  teeth. 

From  the  noisy,  active  brilliance  of  the  river 
they  entered  moist  green  quietude.  The  grass 
was  high  and  soft,  the  trees  drooped  low;  and 
under  them,  in  the  dense  shade,  winged  flakes  of 
silver  floated.  Like  a  small,  buzzing  bell  of  gold, 
a  wild  bee  flew  up  into  the  air. 

"We  shall  have  to  look  for  the  others,"  said 
Anne  to  her  brother.  She  became  suddenly  dis- 
pirited. 

Christopher  made  a  wry  face.  Martha  in- 
sisted. 

"Let  us  remain  together,"  said  Thomas  Illey. 
His  voice  had  nothing  unusual  in  it,  yet  it  had 
an  effect  on  Anne  as  if  it  caught  hold  of  her  and 
held  her  back.  Now  nobody  thought  any  more 
of  separation.  Moss  yielded  softly  under  their 
feet.  The  boughs,  like  waves,  opened  and  shut 
up  again  behind  them. 


152  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"As  if  we  walked  at  the  bottom  of  a  green 
lake.  .  .  ." 

"The  shade,  too,  is  as  cool  as  water." 

"This  year  summer  was  late.  We  had  to  wait 
a  long  time  for  it." 

"Ever  so  long.  But  now  it  has  come  at 
last." 

"It  has  come.  .  .  ."  Anne  said  nothing  more 
and  looked  suddenly  sideways  at  Illey.  She  felt 
uneasy.  He  seemed  again  quite  strange  to  her. 
He  whom  she  had  seen  in  the  glen  behind  the 
cemetery  had  been  handsomer  and  more  attrac- 
tive. Thomas  Illey's  sharp,  lean  face  gave  the 
lie  to  her  memory. 

The  trees  became  sparser.  They  came  to  a 
meadow.  Illey  took  his  hat  off.  The  sun  shone 
on  his  face. 

Anne  stopped,  her  eyes  became  large  and  blue 
as  if  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  sky  and  her  mem- 
ory melted  for  one  instant  into  reality.  Now 
she  could  not  understand  how  it  had  been  possible 
for  her  to  think  that  Illey  had  been  changed  by 
her  imagination.  He  was  his  own  self  .  .  .  ex- 
actly like  the  one  she  had  not  forgotten.  His 
dark  hair  shone.  His  noble  head  curved  in  a  fine 
line  into  his  neck,  like  a  thoroughbred's.  Anne's 
eyes  caressed  him  timidly.  That  was  not  the 
broad  muscular  nape  of  the  Ulwings.  The  lords 
of  Ille  had  never  carried  heavy  loads. 

She  saw  what  she  had  believed  was  lost.  And 
as  she  passed  by  his  side,  she  felt  as  if  a  ripple  of 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  153 

trembling,  happy  laughter  pervaded  her  and  rose 
to  her  lips  and  filled  her  eyes. 

The  restraint  in  her  melted  away.  After  all, 
they  had  known  each  other  for  a  long  time.  They 
had  so  much  to  tell  each  other. 

Thomas  Illey  also  talked  more  freely. 

Anne  learned  that  his  parents  were  no  longer 
living;  that  he  was  born  down  south  on  the 
banks  of  the  Danube,  on  the  lands  of  Ille.  Far 
away,  in  a  big  country  house  where  one's  foot- 
steps echoed  under  old  portraits.  The  garden 
looked  in  through  the  windows.  One  could  hear 
the  Danube  and,  in  autumn  mists,  the  horn  of 
the  chase.  In  the  tillage  silver-white  oxen  with 
wide  horns,  behind  them  farmer  serfs  of  Ille  as 
if  all  had  risen  from  the  furrow. 

All  this  was  foreign  and  curious  to  Anne,  but 
she  liked  to  listen  to  Illey's  voice.  Only  grad- 
ually did  she  begin  to  feel  that  what  he  talked 
about  absorbed  him  entirely  as  if  it  dragged  him 
away  from  her  side  on  the  shady  path.  If  that 
were  true!  If  he  really  happened  to  go  away! 
She  asked  him  spontaneously; 

"But  you  will  come  back  from  there  again?" 

"Come  back?"  The  man  stopped  for  an  in- 
stant. The  glitter  died  away  in  his  eyes.  "I  can 
go  there  no  more.  Ille  has  ceased  to  be  ours." 

Anne  scarcely  heard  him.  She  knew  only  that 
he  would  not  go  away,  that  he  would  stay  here. 
Illey  smiled  again.  He  smiled  in  a  queer,  pain- 
ful way.  The  girl  noticed  this. 


154  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"What  is  the  matter?  Nothing.  .  .  .  Why 
do  I  ask?  I  thought  a  twig  had  Jiit  you." 

"Trees  won't  hurt  me." 

He  spoke  of  the  oaks  of  I  lie.  They  stood  in 
front  of  the  house.  They  soughed  in  the  wind. 
They  told  each  other  something  that  the  children 
could  not  understand,  just  like  the  grown-ups 
when  they  talked  Latin  in  the  drawing-room. 
Beyond  the  gate  of  the  courtyard,  a  row  of  pop- 
lars swayed  in  the  wind.  The  poplars  moved 
like  plumes.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  there 
was  a  cherry  tree  with  a  swing  on  it.  The  ropes 
had  cut  into  the  bark  of  a  branch  and  left  their 
mark  forever. 

The  face  of  Thomas  Illey  became  younger  as 
he  spoke.  He  looked  at  Anne. 

"In  the  glen  where  we  first  met,  there  is  a 
cherry  tree  too  and  it  resembles  the  one  with  the 
swing.  Here  is  another." 

He  pointed  to  a  tree  with  his  stick. 

Till  then  they  had  apparently  been  eager  to 
speak,  as  if  wanting  to  keep  in  touch  though  their 
ways  had  been  wide  apart.  Now,  however,  their 
voices  failed ;  they  had  reached  the  present.  The 
dense  bushes  hid  the  other  two  from  their  sight. 
They  perceived  that  they  were  alone. 

The  island  was  silent,  as  if  spell-bound.  And 
in  the  spell  their  looks  met  timidly. 

Time  rested  for  an  instant,  then  continued  its 
flight. 

The  laughing  face  of  Martha  Illey  peeped  out 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  155 

of  the  dense  leaves.  She  waved  a  bunch  of  wild 
flowers  over  her  head.  Christopher  had  picked 
them  for  her  and  she  had  arranged  them  so  deftly 
that  the  very  fields  could  not  have  done  better. 

Anne  looked  at  the  nosegay.  Then  she  cast 
her  eyes  down  on  her  bosom :  she  would  have  liked 
to  wear  a  nosegay  there,  to  take  it  home  .  .  .  but 
Thomas  Illey  gave  her  no  flowers. 

Around  them  the  bushes  entangled  themselves 
into  an  impenetrable  wilderness.  The  path  be- 
came mossy,  reached  some  steps  and  disappeared. 
Beneath,  the  worn-out  centuries-old  stairs ;  in  the 
overgrown  hollow,  gentle  sacred  ruins.  Among 
the  stones  a  gothic  window.  Green,  cold  church 
walls ;  the  ancient  monastery  of  St.  Margaret. 

A  low-flying  bird  was  startled  out  of  the  prin- 
cess's cell.  From  the  road  along  the  water  voices 
became  audible.  There  were  people  beyond  the 
ruins. 

Anne  recognised  the  chocolate-coloured  um- 
brella of  Mrs.  Miiller,  the  chemist's  wife.  It 
was  an  umbrella  with  a  spring  and  was  now  tilted 
to  the  side  like  a  round  fan.  The  old-fashioned 
beaver  of  Gardos,  the  proto-medicus,  was  visible 
too.  So  was  Mrs.  Gal's  chequered  shawl  and  the 
Miss  Miinsters'  forget-me-not  hats. 

"There  they  are!"  said  Anne.  Christopher 
caught  hold  of  her  arm  and  pulled  her  back. 

On  the  road  the  excursionists  walked  in 
couples,  panting,  hot,  as  if  doing  hard  work. 

Next  to  Ignace  Hold  his  wife  wralked  tired  and 


156  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

weary.  Sophie  had  become  ugly.  Only  her 
eyes  were  like  of  old,  those  beautiful  soft  eyes. 

Christopher  looked  after  her  for  a  long  time. 

The  side  whiskers  of  the  chemist  floated  in  the 
breeze  from  the  river.  Mrs.  Ferdinand  Miiller 
was  holding  forth  on  the  prospects  of  the  camo- 
mile crops.  Little  hunchback  Gal,  the  mer- 
cenary wine-merchant,  complained  that  less  wine 
was  consumed  now  in  Pest  than  of  old. 

"I  want  drunkards!"  he  shouted,  and  laughed 
at  his  sally. 

Behind  them  two  shop  assistants  carried  a 
basket.  Long-necked  bottles  protruded  from  it. 

Anne  looked  at  Thomas  Illey.  She  was  struck 
by  his  height  and  proportions.  His  face  seemed 
elegant  in  its  narrowness.  She  felt  drawn  to- 
wards him. 

"Let  us  go  after  them,"  she  said  in  a  whisper, 
as  if  to  appease  her  conscience. 

"Later  on.  .  .  ."  Christopher  laughed  and 
went  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  began  to 
talk  of  Art.  He  said  he  would  like  to  be  a 
painter.  He  would  paint  a  landscape,  a  wood. 
A  fire  would  burn  under  the  trees  and  in  the 
flames  small,  red-bodied  fairies  would  sway.  He 
would  also  paint  a  high,  white  castle.  On  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  a  high,  solitary  mountain. 
On  the  bastion  a  white  woman  with  shaded  eyes 
would  stand,  her  hair  alone  would  be  black  and 
float  in  the  wind  like  a  standard.  He  changed 
his  subject  suddenly.  He  spoke  of  music:  of 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  157 

Bach  and  Mozart.  Cleverly  he  managed  to  re- 
main in  his  depth;  then  he  started  whistling  the 
tune  of  a  valse,  gently,  sweetly.  He  casually 
mentioned  that  it  was  his  own  composition. 

He  also  spoke  of  travels,  though  he  had  never 
made  a  journey,  of  architecture,  of  books  he  had 
never  read,  laughing  in  between  with  childish 
boisterous  laughter. 

Anne  looked  upon  him  as  if  he  were  a  conjurer. 
How  amiable  he  could  be  when  he  wanted  to,  and 
for  the  moment  she  saw  in  him  the  Christopher 
of  old,  with  his  fair  hair  shining  like  silver,  and 
his  pale  face. 

Then  again  Thomas  Illey  alone  was  near 
Anne.  At  the  upper  point  of  the  island  it  felt 
like  standing  on  an  anchored  ship.  In  front  of 
them  a  narrow  pebbly  strip  of  land,  cutting  the 
stream  in  two.  The  river  split.  It  ran  down 
gurgling  on  both  sides.  Suddenly  the  water 
stopped  and  the  island  began  to  move.  The 
island  had  weighed  anchor  .  .  .  the  ship  started 
carrying  them  towards  the  shoreless  Infinite. 

The  sun  sank  behind  the  hills.  Anne  started 
and  gazed  after  it. 

"It  is  going.  .  .  ." 

On  the  cool,  glasslike  sky  the  silver  sickle  of 
the  new  moon  appeared. 

They  turned  back,  but  they  searched  in  vain 
for  the  excursionists.  Near  the  farm  scraps  of 
paper  and  empty  long-necked  bottles  lay  on  the 
downtrodden  lawn. 


158  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

The  ferryman  was  waiting  for  them  among 
the  boughs.  Christopher  was  tired,  weary  of  the 
role  he  had  supported  so  long.  -  He  knew  now 
that  he  could  do  the  trick  if  such  were  his  pleas- 
ure. The  magic  of  the  ancient  name  of  Illey 
had  worn  off;  he  ceased  to  be  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  a  bearer  of  it  had  once  been  Assistant 
Viceroy  and  talking  to  Illey  gave  him  no  more 
satisfaction  than  talking  to  any  of  his  usual  club 
friends. 

Since  they  had  got  into  the  boat,  Anne  too 
had  become  silent.  It  was  the  evening  of  a  holi- 
day and  to-morrow  would  be  a  workaday 
again.  .  .  .  The  bright  smile  died  off  her  lips. 
She  glanced  back  to  the  receding  island  and, 
taking  her  gloves  off,  put  a  hand  into  the  water 
as  if  to  caress  the  river.  The  ripple  lapped  at 
her  hand. 

Illey  sat  on  the  prow  and  looked  into  the  water. 
In  the  faint,  silvery  moonlight  the  rings  glittered 
on  Anne's  bony,  boyish  little  hands.  A  sap- 
phire: a  blue  spark;  a  ruby:  a  drop  of  blood. 
The  river  could  not  wash  them  off  the  girl's 
finger. 

"How  the  current  draws,"  said  Anne.  Half 
unconsciously  Illey  also  touched  the  water. 
And  the  Danube,  the  common  master  of  the  des- 
tinies of  remote  German  forests  and  great  Hun- 
garian plains,  seemed  for  an  instant  to  try  and 
sweep  the  hands  of  their  children  together. 

The  boat  reached  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  old  house  was  in  flower.     Never  be- 
fore had  so  many  roses  blossomed  in  the 
garden.     Anne  wanted  it  so.     She  car- 
ried the  flowers  into  the  house  and  went, 
faintly  smiling,  from  room  to  room.     She  looked 
at  every  object  curiously  as  if  she  were  seeing  it 
for  the  first  time.     The  furniture,  the  pictures, 
they  all  seemed  different  now;   she  looked  at 
them  with  different  eyes,  with  the  eyes  of  one 
for  whom  she  waited.     Had  not  somebody  said 
to  her  the  other  day,  on  the  pier  of  the  Danube, 
"Au  revoir.  .  .  ." 

Since  then  she  had  not  met  Thomas  Illey. 
And  yet  she  had  never  taken  so  many  walks  with 
Mamsell  Tini.  Sometimes  she  was  quite  tired 
and  still  she  wanted  to  go  on,  towards  the  pier 
on  the  Danube,  through  the  inner  town.  A 
clean-cut  profile  behind  the  window  of  a  carriage 
rumbling  by:  her  heart  rose.  But  no,  it  was  an- 
other mistake.  A  slender  form  near  the  corner; 
when  it  came  nearer  it  was  a  stranger. 

The  days  grew  hot,  the  nights  were  close. 
A  window  of  the  Ulwing's  house  opened  softly 
in  the  moist  early  morning.     The  shadows  were 
still  deep  on  the  front.     Opposite,  sunlight  was 

159 


160  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

streaming  golden  over  the  castle  hill,  as  if  it  shone 
through  a  window  of  amber. 

Anne  leaned  out  into  the  clear  sunrise.  She 
looked  towards  the  island.  When  she  turned 
back  again  the  rays  of  the  yellow  morning  sun 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  and  came  float- 
ing across  the  Danube. 

Steps  approached.  Tramping  boots,  the  slap- 
slap  of  naked  feet.  At  the  corner  a  three-storied 
building  was  under  construction.  The  name  of 
an  unknown  contractor  hung  from  the  scaffold- 
ing. Shouts,  hammering  .  .  .  On  the  other  side 
of  the  street  another  new  house.  That  was  built 
by  the  Ulwings,  but  it  made  slow  progress. 
Many  houses.  .  .  .  Workmen  poured  into  the 
town  from  the  countryside.  The  streets  were 
loud  with  patois  talk.  The  old,  fair,  German 
citizens  seemed  to  have  disappeared. 

A  peasant  girl  in  a  bright-coloured  petticoat 
passed  under  the  window  beside  a  mason.  The 
ample  petticoat  rustled  pleasantly  in  unison  with 
the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  man.  Anne  looked 
after  them.  "Lucky  people,  they  are  together!" 
She  thought  of  herself  and  remembered  a  dream. 
She  had  dreamt  it  last  night,  though  she  had 
imagined  that  she  had  not  slept  at  all. 

In  her  dream  she  walked  a  strange  street  by 
herself.  That  was  unusual  and  frightened  her. 
Only  one  person  was  visible  in  the  deserted  street, 
at  the  far  end  of  it.  She  recognised  him  by  his 
elegant,  careless  gait.  She  followed  him,  faster 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  161 

and  faster,  but  the  distance  between  them  re- 
mained the  same. 

The  street  began  to  stretch  and  become  longer 
and  longer. 

And  he  looked  quite  small,  far,  far  away.  She 
could  not  reach  him  though  by  now  she  was  run- 
ning breathlessly.  She  wanted  to  shout  to  him 
to  stop,  stretching  her  arms  out  after  him. 

She  awoke.  The  dream  had  vanished,  but  in 
her  heart  there  remained  the  longing,  urgent 
movement  of  her  outstretched  arms. 

She  looked  at  the  portrait  of  her  mother.  Her 
mother  was  no  longer  older  than  she;  they  were 
now  of  the  same  age,  she  and  the  scared-looking 
child-woman.  She  had  outlived  her  mother's 
years.  If  she  were  here.  .  .  .  No,  not  even  to 
her  could  she  speak  of  this,  to  nobody,  never. 

She  threw  herself  on  to  the  couch  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  With  half -shut  eyes, 
she  stared  at  the  flowered  linen  cover.  It  began 
to  spread  round  her.  It  was  linen  no  longer;  it 
became  a  meadow,  a  meadow  all  covered  with 
flowers  and  someone  was  coming  towards  her 
from  the  other  end.  She  did  not  turn  in  his 
direction,  yet  she  knew  that  he  was  coming.  Her 
heart  beat  violently.  She  raised  her  head  in  as- 
tonishment. Everything  was  new,  she  herself 
was  new.  All  of  a  sudden  she  felt  a  desire  to 
sing,  sing  out  to  the  sunshine  of  something  that 
was  greater  than  she,  too  great  to  be  retained  in 
her  bosom. 


162  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

To  sing.  .  .  .  But  the  house  was  asleep.  She 
alone  was  awake.  That  was  dejightful  ...  to 
be  alone.  She  felt  an  irrepressible  smile  on  her 
lips.  "I  love  him  .  .  ."  she  whispered  it  softly, 
but  she  felt  as  though  in  these  words  she  had 
sung  all  her  songs. 

Downstairs  the  side  entrance  creaked  gently. 
Christopher  had  just  come  home.  He  looked 
round  and  then  stole  into  the  office,  into  the 
room  where  his  father  used  to  work  in  the  mas- 
ter-builder's life  time.  Since  Christopher  had 
somehow  managed  to  pass  through  the  techni- 
cal school,  that  was  his  place.  Worn  out,  he 
leaned  his  elbows  on  the  writing-table.  His 
shirt  was  crushed  and  his  face  looked  crushed 
too. 

Otto  Fiiger  came  in  to  him,  but  he  was  unable 
to  alter  his  despairing  attitude.  Helplessly  his 
mouth  went  sideways. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  the  younger 
Fiiger. 

Christopher  looked  up  wearily.  It  was  all 
the  same  to  him  who  questioned  him  and  what 
he  answered.  At  this  moment  he  would  have 
confessed  his  misery  even  to  Florian.  He  had 
to  speak  to  somebody  ...  it  is  a  relief  to  speak. 

The  straight  soft  lips  of  Otto  Fiiger's  mouth 
went  wide  apart.  His  eyes  became  round.  He 
had  long  suspected  that  Christopher  gambled. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  163 

But  what  he  had  lost  last  night  was  more 
than  he  thought  possible.  Too  much.  .  .  .  He 
steadied  his  staring  features.  He  wanted  to 
know  all  there  was  to  know. 

"Is  that  all  the  trouble?" 

Christopher  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  He 
expected  reproaches.  That  was  what  he  wanted ; 
that  would  have  shamed  him,  appeased  him.  It 
would  have  relieved  him  of  the  weight  of  respon- 
sibility. Otto  Fiiger  felt  that  he  had  been  tact- 
less. He  put  on  a  serious,  worried  expression. 

"This  is  a  misfortune.  A  great  misfortune. 
If  the  late  Mr.  Ulwing  knew  .  .  .  !" 

Yet,  he  could  have  said  nothing  more  crushing. 
Christopher  bent  his  head. 

"Don't  think  ...  I  am  not  bad.  I  am  only 
unlucky,  damned  unlucky." 

Young  Fiiger  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
and  seemed  deep  in  thought  though  he  knew 
full  well  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

Christopher's  eyes  followed  his  movements 
with  painful  attention. 

"Help  me,"  he  said  hoarsely  when  silence  be- 
came insufferable.  "Help  me,  for  God's  sake; 
give  me  some  advice." 

That  was  exactly  what  Otto  Fiiger  wanted. 
He  looked  round  cautiously,  then  stopped  in 
front  of  his  chief's  son. 

"The  name  of  Ulwing  is  good,"  he  whispered, 
"in  Paternoster  Street  they  will  lend  on  it 


164  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

whatever  you  want.  What  are  letters  of  ex- 
change for?  Of  course,  it's  wrong,"  he  added 
hastily,  "but  for  once  .  .  ." 

"In  Paternoster  Street,  at  the  money 
changer's?"  Christopher  looked  up  a  little. 
"And  my  simple  signature  is  sufficient?  How 
is  it  I  never  thought  of  it!  Shall  I  go  there?" 

When  Otto  Fiiger  was  left  alone,  he  took  his 
spectacles  off,  breathed  on  them  and  while  he 
wiped  them  kept  them  quite  close  to  his  eyes. 
He  sat  down  to  the  writing-table.  Slowly  he 
began  to  draw  on  the  blotter.  First  he  drew 
flourishes  which  became  by  degrees  the  letter  U 
.  .  .  Ulwing  &  Co.  These  were  the  words  he 
wrote  finally  and  he  thought  that  he  would  be  the 
Co.  He  would  work,  but  no  more  in  the  dark, 
no  more  for  others,  like  Augustus  Fiiger,  for 
whom  he  felt  an  intimate  contempt.  His  father 
had  the  nature  of  an  old-fashioned  servant,  who 
grows  old  in  the  yoke,  remains  a  beggar  for  ever 
and  works  for  another  man's  pocket. 

He  effaced  what  he  had  written  on  the  blotter 
and  got  up  respectfully  from  the  table.  John 
Hubert  was  crossing  the  room.  The  head  of  the 
firm  waved  his  hand  amicably.  Otto  Fiiger 
wrinkled  his  eyebrows.  "What  an  old  hand  he 
has.  The  whole  man  is  old.  Won't  last  long." 
And  he  looked  after  him  with  the  slow,  strangled 
hatred  that  is  only  felt  by  the  poor  who  have  to 
sell  their  brains  to  enrich  the  rich. 

"He  can't  last  long.     And  the  other?  .  .  ." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  165 

He  started  anew  writing  on  the  pad.  Ulwing 
&  Co.  He  wrote  it  many  times  and  erased  it 
carefully. 

That  afternoon  Christopher  brought  Anne  a 
small  gold  chain.  He  bought  Mamsell  Tini  a 
silver-plated  statue  of  St.  Anthony,  gave  Florian 
some  money  and  sent  him  to  the  circus.  He  was 
generous  and  whistled  happily. 

At  the  money  changers'  in  Paternoster  Street 
everybody  bowed  respectfully  when  he  mentioned 
that  his  name  was  Christopher  Ulwing.  They 
never  asked  for  any  security,  nor  did  they  make 
any  enquiries.  The  pen  trembled  slightly  be- 
tween his  fingers,  but  the  owl-faced  little  clerk 
who  presented  the  bill  of  exchange  never  noticed 
it. 

Now  he  was  going  to  pay  all  his  debts.  He 
began  to  count.  How  much  would  there  be  left 
over?  He  owed  money  to  two  usurers  in  King 
Street.  He  would  take  his  watch  out  of  pawn. 
He  thought  of  the  suspicious  old  hag  who  waited 
for  nightfall  to  open  her  door  at  the  bottom  of 
the  courtyard  of  a  disreputable  house.  He  had 
promised  a  bracelet  to  a  girl.  Greater  sums  be- 
gan to  come  to  his  mind.  Many  old  debts  he 
had  forgotten.  He  whistled  no  more.  He 
tried  to  suppress  the  unpleasant  thoughts;  they 
had  no  justification,  for  had  he  not  plenty  of 
money  in  his  pocket?  Somehow  he  would  man- 
age to  get  his  house  in  order.  As  for  cards,  he 
would  never  touch  them  again. 


166  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Then  he  stared  wearily  into  space;  he  felt  ir- 
ritated. He  had  lost  all  faith  ir^iis  own  pledges. 
He  had  broken  as  many  promises  as  he  had  made. 
He  must  pledge  his  word  to  somebody  else. 
Where  was  Anne? 

Anne  stood  outside  near  the  stairs  and,  leaning 
against  the  balustrade,  looked  into  the  porch. 
She  did  not  change  her  attitude  when  her  brother 
stepped  beside  her. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  asked  Christopher 
to  attract  her  attention.  He  needed  her,  he 
wanted  to  speak  to  her.  Now,  at  once,  because 
later  on  he  might  not  have  the  courage  to  do  so. 

"Anne.  .  .  ." 

The  young  girl  turned  round,  but  her  look 
strayed  beyond  him. 

"Somebody  has  come,  the  front  door  bell 
rang."  At  this  moment  she  lived  her  own  life 
so  intently  that  her  heart  could  not  hear  the  si- 
lent cry  for  help  of  the  other  life. 

Christopher  stopped  near  her  for  a  little  while, 
then  he  gave  a  short  whistle.  The  moment  when 
he  had  decided  to  open  his  heart  had  passed.  He 
was  rather  pleased  that  he  had  not  tied  him- 
self with  embarrassing  promises.  He  remained 
free. 

Anne  scarcely  noticed  when  he  left  her.  She 
leaned  again  over  the  balustrade.  The  corners 
of  her  eyes  and  lips  rose  imperceptibly.  Her 
small  face  took  on  a  strange  expectant  expres- 
sion. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  167 

And  on  that  day  he  for  whom  Anne  had  waited 
really  came. 

They  sat  in  the  sunshine  room,  stiff,  in  a  polite 
circle,  as  if  a  hoop  were  on  the  ground  between 
them. 

Thomas  Illey  had  brought  his  sister  with  him. 
Christopher  was  also  there  and  Anne  imagined 
that  they  must  all  necessarily  notice  her  panting 
breath,  and  the  blood  forever  rising  to  her  cheeks. 

She  began  to  observe  herself  carefully,  but 
found  her  voice  natural,  her  movements  regular, 
as  if  someone  else  acted  for  her.  She  grew  calm ; 
the  confused  sounds  in  her  head  turned  into 
words.  Thomas  Illey's  voice  became  distinct 
from  the  others  and  reached  her  like  a  touch. 

It  gave  her  a  tremor.  It  attracted  her  irre- 
sistibly, she  had  to  turn  her  face  to  him.  Illey's 
eyes  were  shining  and  deep.  Only  for  an  in- 
stant did  he  look  so,  then  he  seemed  to  make  an 
effort  and  a  cloud  of  haughty  reserve  fell  over 
the  radiant  warmth  of  his  look,  concealing  it  from 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

But  Anne  did  not  forget  that  look,  when  her 
father  came  up  from  his  office.  Thomas  Illey 
spoke  to  John  Hubert  only,  who  sat  just  as 
solemnly  on  the  thin-legged  flowered  chair  as 
he  did  long  ago  besides  the  Septemvir  Bajmoczy 
in  the  drawing-room  of  Baroness  Geramb. 

They  spoke  of  the  city.  Of  new  railways. 
Steamers  for  the  Danube.  Building.  Politics. 

Anne  did  not  understand  much  of  this.     In 


168  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

the  Ulwing  family  national  politics  only  meant 
a  good  or  bad  business  year.  They  were  con- 
sidered a  means  or  an  obstruction,  whereas  to 
Illey  they  seemed  interesting  for  their  own  sake. 

His  sparse,  tense  speech  became  voluble. 

"In  vain  they  trample  on  us,  in  vain  they 
throttle  us,"  he  said  and  his  expression  became 
hard.  "The  great  freedom  of  the  nomads  is  the 
ancestral  home  of  my  race.  We  sprang  from 
that.  It  cannot  be  forgotten.  .  .  ." 

Anne  looked  at  him  intensely  and  while  she 
listened  distant  memories  came  slowly  from  the 
twilight  of  her  mind.  Grandfather  Jorg's  for- 
mer shop,  feverish  men  and  the  mysterious  pow- 
erful voice  which,  unintelligible,  had  once  carried 
her  soul  for  a  cause  she  could  not  understand. 
Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  Thomas  Illey  gave 
words  to  the  voice  and  that  she  began  to  under- 
stand events  of  her  childhood. 

John  Hubert  too  followed  Illey's  word  atten- 
tively and  thought  of  his  father,  Ulwing  the 
builder.  What  he  had  done  and  felt  for  the 
town,  Illey  felt  for  the  country  and  would  like 
to  do  for  the  whole  country.  How  was  that 
possible? 

He  smiled  soberly.  "They  are  all  the  same, 
the  Hungarian  gentry.  Every  one  of  them 
wants  to  save  the  whole  country,  yet  if  each  of 
them  grappled  with  a  small  part  of  it,  they 
would  achieve  more."  He  criticised  his  guest 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  169 

quietly  within  himself,  yet  listened  to  him  with 
pleasure,  because  his  words  roused  confidence 
and  his  thoughts  could  find  support  in  the  power 
of  words. 

"Do  you  really  think  it  is  possible  that  our 
economic  life  should  ever  revive  again?"  John 
Hubert  was  now  thinking  of  his  business  only. 
He  spoke  of  the  price  of  timber,  building  mate- 
rial and  labour  conditions. 

Martha  smiled  absent-mindedly  in  the  corner 
of  the  flowered  couch.  Christopher  interrupted 
nervously  but  his  father  did  not  heed  him. 

Thomas  Illey  listened  politely.  Anne  noticed 
that  he  glanced  towards  the  mantelpiece,  at  the 
clock  under  the  glass  globe.  Frightened,  she 
followed  his  look.  She  had  never  yet  seen  the 
hand  run  so  mischievously  fast.  And  she  now 
had  a  foreboding  of  what  the  hours  were  to  be 
to  her  when  she  was  without  him. 

She  must  say  something  to  Illey  before  he 
went,  something  that  would  bring  him  back 
again.  She  did  not  know  that  she  got  up,  she 
did  not  know  that  she  went  to  the  piano. 

"Yes,  sing  something,"  said  Martha. 

"Do  sing!"  cried  Christopher,  delighted  to  in- 
terrupt his  father. 

Anne  glanced  shyly  at  Illey.  He  looked  im- 
ploringly. Their  eyes  met.  They  were  far 
from  each  other  and  yet  the  girl  felt  that  she  was 
nearest  to  him  and  was  going  to  say  something 


170  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

to  him,  to  him  alone.  She  did  not  know  what. 
But  under  her  hand  Schubert's  music  was  already 
rising  from  the  piano. 

"Greetings  to  thee,  greetings  to  thee.  .  .  ." 

Blood  rose  in  a  pale  pink  cloud  to  Anne's  tem- 
ples. Her  face  became  radiantly  beautiful,  her 
pure  youthful  bosom  rose  and  fell  like  a  pair 
of  snowy,  beating  wings  and  her  voice  sounded 
clearly,  rapturously,  like  a  deep,  all-powerful 
passion.  It  expressed  tears,  triumphant  youth, 
the  unconscious,  glorious  avowal  of  all  her 
love. 

Christopher  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  He 
had  never  heard  his  sober,  serious  sister  sing  like 
that.  All  looked  at  Anne.  Not  one  of  them 
understood  what  had  happened,  yet  they  felt  a 
strange  warm  light  thrill  through  them. 

"How  beautiful  she  looks  when  she  is  singing!" 
thought  Thomas  Illey. 

People  do  not  see  each  other  always,  only  now 
and  then  for  a  moment.  Thomas  Illey  saw  Anne 
in  this  moment.  He  turned  a  little  pale  and  felt 
as  if  a  hot  caressing  hand  fanned  the  air  near 
his  face.  He  lost  control  over  his  eyes  and  pas- 
sionately they  took  possession  of  the  girl. 

Though  Anne  did  not  understand  all  that  was 
in  this  look,  it  moved  her  deeply. 

Then  the  song  came  to  an  end.  The  follow- 
ing silence  cooled  Anne's  soul.  Her  greenish 
blue  eyes  looked  frigidly  into  the  air,  her  eyelids 
became  immobile.  When  she  turned  to  Illey  her 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  171 

face  was  reserved,  impenetrable.  She  wanted  to 
screen  what  she  had  shown  of  herself,  as  if  she 
were  ashamed  of  it. 

The  others  too  assumed  this  ordinary  expres- 
sion. Everybody  returned  to  everyday  sober- 
ness. Netti  brought  the  lamp  in.  It  was  even- 
ing. 

Before  the  week  was  over  Thomas  Illey  called 
again  at  the  old  house.  He  came  alone,  Martha 
had  gone  into  the  country. 

"To  the  mother  of  her  fiance,"  said  Illey. 
"It  is  an  old  engagement.  The  wedding  will  be 
in  autumn.  Then  that  worry  will  be  over  too." 

He  said  no  more  about  it.  On  the  whole  he 
spoke  little.  Nor  did  Anne  say  much,  but  the 
silence  between  them  was  bright  and  happy. 

Tini's  knitting  needles  clattered  rapidly  under- 
neath the  lamp-shade;  and  the  expression  of  her 
long,  stiff  face  was  that  of  an  elderly  person  con- 
templating spring  through  the  window. 

Now  and  then  Anne  started,  as  if  his  look  had 
called  to  her  by  name.  She  smiled  at  Thomas 
over  the  embroidery  screen,  then  bent  her  head 
down  again  and  the  stones  of  her  rings  sparkled 
at  regular  intervals  as  she  drew  the  silk  upwards. 

John  Hubert  came  up  from  the  office.  Mam- 
sell  Tini  stuck  her  knitting  needles  into  the  ball 
of  wool.  She  got  up.  Her  steps  died  away  in 
the  corridor  and  John  Hubert  spoke  again  about 
business,  the  town  and  building. 


172  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

When  this  happened  Anne  began  to  hear  the 
ticking  of  the  clock.  If  only  oncje  she  could  be 
alone  with  Thomas,  she  would  go  to  the  clock, 
push  its  hand  back  and  that  would  tell  him  all 
she  dared  not  express  in  words.  But  they  were 
never  alone.  She  could  only  speak  to  him  when 
she  was  singing. 

Did  he  understand  it?  Did  he  like  to  hear  it? 
She  did  not  know.  Illey  was  different  from  ev- 
eryone she  had  known  hitherto.  When  their 
eyes  met  in  silence  she  felt  herself  quite  near 
to  him.  When  they  spoke  to  each  other  it 
seemed  to  her  that  they  were  far,  far  apart  and 
that  their  voices  had  to  travel  a  great  distance, 
the  words  being  dulled  on  the  way. 

Anne  began  to  grow  fond  of  silence  which  she 
could  fill  with  the  warmth  of  her  heart. 

Summer  passed  away. 

Thomas  Illey  came  more  and  more  frequently 
and  stayed  longer  and  longer.  John  Hubert 
surrendered  his  evening  stroll  to  remain  in  his 
company.  Tini  produced  the  best  china  cups 
from  the  glass  cupboard  when  he  was  expected. 
Florian  ran  to  open  the  door. 

The  days  became  shorter.  Now  and  then 
Netti  lit  a  fire  in  the  stove. 

One  evening  Illey  was  even  more  taciturn  than 
usual. 

Tini  dropped  her  ball  of  wool.  While  she 
bent  down  for  it  Thomas  turned  suddenly  to 
Anne  and  said  in  a  very  low  whisper: 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  173 

"I  shall  soon  leave  Pest.  Give  me  a  word  that 
I  can  carry  with  me." 

Mamsell  was  now  sitting  up  again,  stiff  and 
straight,  on  her  chair  and  her  knitting  needles 
knocked  each  other  diligently. 

Anne's  hand  had  slid  down  from  the  embroid- 
ery frame  and  her  eyes  became  dull  as  if  all  their 
lustre  had  melted  away. 

"You  are  going?"     Her  voice  was  very  dim. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Miss  Tini,  absent- 
mindedly.  She  stuck  one  of  the  knitting  needles 
sideways  into  the  knot  of  her  hair  and  began  to 
count  the  stitches. 

Illey  watched  with  silent  despair  the  slow-mov- 
ing lips  of  Mamsell  as  he  impatiently  twirled  the 
old  seal  ring  round  and  round. 

"I  am  going  to  Martha's  wedding.  I  have 
some  other  business  too,  so  who  knows  when  I 
can  come  back  again." 

Anne  looked  at  the  ring  and  then  lifted  her 
eyes  to  Thomas.  She  would  have  liked  to  tell 
him,  implore  him,  to  take  her  with  him  too,  to 
abide  faithfully  by  her  as  he  clung  to  that  ring 
and  never  leave  her  alone  again. 

"Come  to-morrow  with  Christopher  to  the 
Palatine's  Island,"  said  Illey  suddenly.  His 
voice  became  harsh  and  commanding.  "We 
shall  meet  at  the  pier."  Then  he  continued,  more 
softly:  "Do  sing  something.  .  .  ."  He  said 
this  as  if  to  clear  the  air  of  the  grating  vibrations 
of  his  former  words. 


174  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"You  really  want  me  to?"  Anne's  eyes 
blazed  up.  The  dominating  voice  had  made  her 
feel  as  though  Thomas  had  laid  hands  on  her, 
as  though  he  had  bent  her  wrist  with  tender 
force.  That  unconscious  delight  of  women  in 
the  humiliations  of  love  flashed  through  her. 
She  blushed  and  asked: 

"What  do  you  like?  Schubert,  Mozart  or 
Schumann?" 

"The  voice  of  Anne  Ulwing,"  answered  Illey 
simply,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes. 

When  the  song  died  away,  Thomas  rose. 

"Au  revoir,"  said  Anne,  and  her  hand,  like  a 
little  bird  snuggling  up  in  its  nest,  took  refuge 
in  his  strong,  warm  grip.  They  remained  like 
that  for  an  instant.  Then  Anne  was  again  alone. 
She  ran  back  to  the  piano. 

Even  now  she  was  still  singing  for  Thomas. 
She  sent  her  voice  after  him,  to  follow  him  down 
the  stairs,  to  attend  him  part  of  the  way.  Per- 
haps he  would  hear  it  and  turn  back. 

She  drew  aside  the  muslin  curtains  of  the  win- 
dow. Lamps  were  already  burning  in  the 
streets.  Someone  on  the  other  side.  Anne 
leant  eagerly  forward. 

It  was  Otto  Fiiger. 

For  a  short  time  the  younger  Fiiger  remained 
standing  there,  and  turned  his  head  in  the  direc- 
tion whither  Thomas  Illey  had  gone. 

From  the  office  window  a  beam  of  light 
stretched  to  the  street.  In  what  had  once  been 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  175 

the  study  of  Ulwing  the  builder  the  green-shaded 
lamps  were  lit  up. 

This  evening  John  Hubert  remained  excep- 
tionally long  at  his  writing  desk.  He  sat  there 
in  a  state  of  collapse  and  his  colourless  skin 
formed  two  empty  folds  under  his  chin.  His 
hand  lay  inert  on  a  bundle  of  papers  which  had 
been  presented  to  him  for  signature. 

He  rose  heavily.  He  was  looking  for  the" 
second  time  through  the  door  which  led  to  the 
adjoining  office.  Once  Augustus  Fiiger  used  to 
work  there,  but,  since  an  attack  of  apoplexy  had 
paralysed  the  little  book-keeper's  right  arm,  his 
son  Otto  occupied  his  place. 

"Where  can  he  be?"  mused  John  Hubert,  look- 
ing through  the  door  into  the  empty  office. 

He  returned  to  his  seat  at  the  writing  desk. 
His  eyes  gazed  at  the  plan  of  Pest-Buda,  but 
he  did  not  see  anything  of  it.  Every  now  and 
then  his  head  twitched,  as  if  he  sought  to  shake 
up  behind  his  forehead  the  dull,  dense  matter 
that  refused  to  act.  He  sighed  and  desisted 
from  the  effort.  He  shut  his  eyes.  But  now 
that  he  wanted  to  rest,  his  brain  became  active 
and  a  whirling  chaos  moved  about  it.  He 
thought  suddenly  of  Christopher. 

Otto  Fiiger  entered  quietly  through  the  door. 
Cold  rage  was  in  his  eye  and  his  lips  were  com- 
pressed and  straight.  But  as  soon  as  he  came 
within  the  light  of  the  lamps  he  was  already 
smiling. 


176  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

John  Hubert  continued  his  reflections  aloud : 

"Somebody  mentioned  Christopher's  name  to- 
day at  the  money-changer's.  The  clerk  spoke  of 
him  behind  the  counter.  When  I  turned  to  them 
they  caught  their  breath.  I  can't  understand  it." 
He  looked  anxiously  at  young  Fiiger.  "Do  you 
know  anything?" 

Otto  Fiiger  did  not  answer  at  once.  At  this 
moment  he  hated  furiously  everybody  living  in 
that  house.  He  hated  the  others  because  of 
Anne  and  on  account  of  that  stuck-up  Illey 
whose  looks  always  passed  above  his  head.  Now 
he  had  his  chance  to  revenge  himself  on  them  for 
having  been  born  in  the  back-lodgings  of  an  in- 
significant book-keeper,  for  being  poor  and 
striving  vainly.  He  looked  humbly  to  the 
ground  and  feigned  to  suffer  from  the  painful 
necessity  of  his  disclosures. 

"It  is  hard  on  me  to  have  to  betray  Mr.  Chris- 
topher. I  have  always  tried  to  restrain  him,  I 
have  implored  him.  .  .  ." 

"What  is  going  on  behind  my^back?"  John 
Hubert's  voice  bubbled  out  heavily  between  his 
blanched  lips. 

When  the  whole  truth  was  revealed  to  him,  he 
repeated  painfully: 

"He  gambles  .  .  .  the  whole  town  knows  it. 
.  .  .  He  loses  .  .  .  bills  of  exchange?  .  .  ." 
He  asked  terrified:  "What  is  the  amount?" 

"One  hundred  and  eighty  thousand 
florins.  .  ,  ." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  177 

For  an  instant,  John  Hubert  straightened 
himself  in  the  chair,  then  his  body  collapsed 
slowly  to  one  side.  His  high  collar  alone  kept 
his  relaxed,  waxy  face  in  position.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  had  turned  quite  old. 

Otto  Fiiger  watched  his  chief  cunningly.  He 
judged  from  his  altered  attitude  what  was  the 
right  thing  to  say. 

"We  must  not  despair,  sir.  At  bottom  Mr. 
Christopher  is  a  good,  God-fearing  young  gen- 
tleman. It  is  all  the  fault  of  bad  company.  I 
always  told  him  so.  Those  young  gentry  fellows 
from  the  country  preyed  on  him.  They  have 
got  rich  Ulwing's  money.  But  don't  punish  him, 
sir.  I  beg  of  you,  let  me  bear  your  anger,  for 
have  I  not  sinned  more  than  he  for  keeping 
it  quiet?" 

He  hung  his  head  penitently,  as  if  expecting 
judgment. 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Otto,"  said  John  Hu- 
bert, deeply  touched. 

"We  will  save  the  reputation  of  the  firm," 
young  Fiiger  said  solemnly.  "As  for  Mr.  Chris- 
topher, if  I  may  venture  to  give  advice,  we  shall 
have  to  tear  him  from  the  tempters.  Perhaps 
abroad.  .  .  ." 

"Send  him  abroad?  Yes,"  John  Hubert  be- 
came suddenly  determined.  "That  was  once  the 
plan  of  my  late  father.  You  advise  Frankfurt? 
All  right,  let  it  be  Frankfurt." 

The  book-keeper  had  not  expected  to  get  his 


178  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

way  so  easily.     He  became  more  enterprising. 

"He  had  better  go  among  unpretentious  work- 
ing-class people,  till  he  settles  down.  Mean- 
while you  might  like  to  choose  for  Miss  Anne 
some  level-headed  business  man  as  a  husband ;  he 
might  enter  the  firm  as  a  partner  and  relieve 
your  mind,  sir,  of  all  the  worries." 

That  was  a  new  hope.  John  Hubert  pulled 
his  necktie  up.  "A  serious  man  of  business  to 
stand  by  Christopher.  Somebody  belonging  to 
the  family.  Anne's  husband.  .  .  ."  Thomas 
Illey's  image  intruded  unpleasantly  on  his  mem- 
ory. "We  must  prevent  them  from  meeting 
again."  Life  had  been  so  exacting  to  him  that 
now  he  would  insist  on  getting  his  own  back. 
He  had  always  been  merciless  to  himself,  now  he 
would  show  no  mercy  to  others. 

"Yes,  that  would  free  me  from  all  care,"  he 
murmured  as  if  taking  counsel  with  himself. 
"Anne's  husband.  .  .  .  But  who  is  it  to  be?" 

Otto  Fiiger  smiled  modestly.  He  took  his 
spectacles  off,  breathed  on  them  and  wiped  them 
while  holding  them  up  to  his  left  eye. 

John  Hubert,  for  reasons  unknown  to  him, 
thought  of  the  son  of  Martin  George  Miinster. 
Charles  Miinster  would  bring  capital  into  the 
business,  he  had  brains.  .  .  . 

He  clapped  Otto  Fiiger  on  the  shoulder. 

"Thank  you!" 

Young  Fiiger  looked  after  him  dejected.  He 
had  expected  something  else. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  179 

Next  day  Christopher  left  the  old  house.  And 
at  the  pier  of  the  Danube  Thomas  Illey  waited 
in  vain  for  Anne. 

White  frost  fell  over  the  autumn  roses  in  the 
garden. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

RAIN  had  collected  in  the  gargoyle  and 
gave  off  a  hopeless  gurgle  as  if  someone 
were  sobbing  under  the  steep  double 
roof. 

Out  of  doors  the  autumn  evening  fell  sadly. 
On  the  window  panes  of  the  sunshine  room  rain- 
drops ran  down  like  tears  on  a  transparent  grey 
face. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  deserted  old  nursery. 
Since  Christopher's  departure  Anne  had  been 
very  lonely.  She  would  often  rise  from  the  work 
table  during  the  afternoon  and  go  quietly  to  the 
door.  She  opened  it  quickly,  nobody  was  there. 
She  looked  down  into  the  depths  of  the  stair- 
case. The  house  was  silent.  She  decided  to 
count  up  to  a  hundred,  then  wait  no  longer. 
Twice  she  counted  up  to  a  hundred,  and  even 
after  that  she  looked  back  from  the  threshold. 

At  night  when  Netti  lit  the  lamp  and  Florian 
bolted  the  front  door,  Anne's  eyes  more  than 
once  filled  with  tears.  She  felt  a  prisoner.  Life 
remained  outside  the  walls  of  her  prison.  Again 
a  useless  day  had  drawn  to  an  end,  that  at  its 
dawning  had  promised  so  generously.  It  tor- 
tured her  artfully  while  it  lasted,  and  in  the  end 
achieved  nothing. 

180 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  181 

Thomas  Illey  came  no  more. 

Anne's  little  face  became  quite  pale  and  thin. 
She  began  to  be  afraid.  Perhaps  Illey  went  to 
someone  else  now,  perhaps  he  was  angry?  The 
last  time  he  saw  her  he  asked  her  so  earnestly 
to  go  the  next  day  to  the  Danube  pier.  And 
she  could  not  go,  could  send  no  message,  could 
not  write.  Christopher  had  to  leave  and  their 
father  was  very  strict  with  both  of  them. 

"Why  does  he  not  come?     Where  is  he?" 

She  pressed  her  face  against  the  window  pane. 
Whenever  the  front  door  bell  rang  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  heart.  She  waited,  then  hung  her 
head  wearily. 

In  the  sunshine  room  the  furniture  began  to 
whisper.  The  walls  too  remembered.  The  door 
handle  was  familiar  with  Thomas's  hand.  The 
shaded  lamp,  the  clock  under  the  glass  globe, 
they  all  told  her  that  they  had  seen  him  many 
times. 

Anne  turned  her  face  away.  The  memories 
wounded  her.  She  clasped  her  hands  in  prayer 
for  respite  from  her  tortures. 

Hours  passed.  Tini  came  in  and  started  to 
read  her  fortune  with  cards.  "All  your  sorrows 
will  come  to  an  end,  my  little  dove,"  she  said 
when  she  finished  her  game. 

"I  have  no  sorrows,"  answered  the  girl  and 
tried  to  hold  her  head  high. 

John  Hubert's  voice  said: 

"Anne,  a  visitor!" 


182  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Of  late  Charles  Minister  had  often  come  to  the 
house.  In  the  evening  he  sat  comfortably  in  the 
green  room,  approving  everything  John  Hubert 
said,  and  when  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say, 
he  carelessly  twirled  the  thumbs  of  his  big,  red 
hands. 

Those  hands  annoyed  Anne.  They  became 
embarrassed,  blushed  like  human  faces,  strug- 
gled, while  Charles  Miinster  remained  placid  and 
tedious  in  his  inordinately  long  Sunday  coat. 

"Why  does  he  come?"  wondered  Anne 
wearily,  while  sitting  opposite  him. 

One  day  she  learned  that  too;  Charles  Miin- 
ster  had  asked  her  father  for  her  hand. 

"It  is  a  very  honourable  proposal  and  very 
advantageous,"  said  John  Hubert  to  his 
daughter.  "The  house  of  Miinster  has  a  good 
reputation  and  is  serious.  The  young  man  is  in- 
telligent and  owns  some  capital." 

Anne's  heart  sank  while  she  looked  at  him  and 
then  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face.  All  her  life 
she  had  striven  to  repress  her  will ;  she  had  always 
obeyed,  but  what  she  was  now  asked  to  do  roused 
her  to  rebellion. 

"No,  never!"  And  her  voice  rang  out  like  a 
hammer  dropping  on  steel. 

John  Hubert  was  startled.  That  was  the 
voice  of  Ulwing  the  builder. 

"I  spoke  too  soon,"  he  thought,  vexed.  "I 
ought  to  have  waited  a  little  longer." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  183 

Then  he  waited.  Outside  the  snow  was  falling 
already. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  Anne's  face  became 
more  and  more  transparent.  She  did  not  sleep 
at  night.  She  sang  no  longer,  nor  did  she  laugh 
and  during  the  long  evenings  she  sat  silent  in 
the  green  room,  while  her  father  worked  at  the 
writing  table  with  the  innumerable  drawers. 

John  Hubert  had  now  to  use  spectacles  for 
reading.  He  pushed  them  up  on  his  forehead 
and  looked  stealthily  at  Anne.  Gradually  he 
became  anxious.  He  thought  of  his  own  life. 
He  had  never  been  happy,  had  never  made  any- 
body else  happy. 

"Are  you  ill?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"No." 

"Have  you  any  pain?" 

Anne  did  not  answer  but  her  eyes  asked  him 
why  he  tortured  her.  John  Hubert  bent  down. 
He  turned  the  pages  of  his  ledger.  Anne  heard 
him  sigh  anxiously. 

"Have  you  had  bad  news  from  Christopher?" 
she  asked,  going  to  the  writing  table.  "No?  Is 
it  the  business  ?  .  .  .  Speak  to  me  about  it,  for  I 
too  am  an  Ulwing." 

John  Hubert  closed  the  book  in  which  he  had 
been  reckoning. 

"You  would  not  understand  it." 

"But  I  could  learn  to.  .  .  ." 

"You  just  go  on  embroidering,  singing.     You 


184  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

have  no  need  to  know  about  business.  It  is  not 
suitable  for  women.  God  has  created  you  for 
other  ends."  But  this  sentence  aroused  his  con- 
science. He  became  embarrassed. 

"You  have  not  yet  forgotten  Thomas  Illey?" 
he  whispered  casting  his  eyes  down. 

"I  have  not  forgotten  him." 

A  few  days  later  Grandfather  Jorg  came  in 
the  evening  to  take  Anne  to  a  concert.  In  the 
carriage  the  old  gentleman  began  to  mention 
Charles  Miinster. 

"Is  he  too  like  all  the  others?"  the  girl  thought 
and  looked  sadly  at  her  grandfather.  Once  he 
had  been  to  prison  for  sympathizing  with  the 
freedom  of  others ;  and  now  he  spoke  against  his 
grandchild's  freedom. 

In  the  concert  hall  the  crowd  was  already  large. 
Innumerable  candles  burned  in  the  gilt  wooden 
chandelier.  Their  flames  wove  a  peaceful  yel- 
low light  in  the  air.  On  the  platform  the  piano 
stood  open.  The  orchestra  was  tuning  up  and 
this  sounded  like  birds  with  sharp  beaks  pecking 
at  the  stringed  instruments. 

A  few  reporters  stood  near  the  wall.  Anne 
heard  them  agree  in  advance  as  to  what  they 
would  say  in  next  day's  papers.  In  the  stalls 
well-known  merchants  from  the  inner  town,  wives 
of  rich  citizens,  officers  in  uniform,  and  right 
in  front  be  jeweled  ladies  in  huge  crinolines, 
noble  gentlemen  in  Hungarian  national  cos- 
tume. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  185 

The  family  of  Miiller  the  chemist  nodded  to 
them.  The  Miinster  daughters  were  there  too. 
In  the  back  rows  the  newcomers  moved  their 
chairs.  Some  laughed  and  cleared  their  throats, 
then  suddenly,  as  if  moved  by  a  common  spring, 
all  the  heads  turned  towards  the  platform.  Then 
all  became  silent. 

Anne  glanced  over  the  faces.  The  crowd 
seemed  to  her  like  an  empty  vessel  gaping  to- 
wards the  piano  in  expectation  of  being  filled 
with  sounds  and  emotions.  Her  heart  was  full 
of  her  young  distress  and  she  felt  afraid  that  at 
the  first  sound  her  sufferings  would  overflow 
through  her  eyes. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  became  strangely  restless, 
as  if  some  one  had  touched  her  from  a  distance. 
She  turned  her  head  quickly.  The  blood 
throbbed  in  her  veins  as  her  look  met  the  dark, 
sad  eyes  of  Thomas  Illey.  And  the  two  glances 
united  through  space. 

Waves  surged  between  them.  A  wild  tumult 
of  cheers  broke  out.  The  round  of  applause 
echoed  like  a  thunderstorm  from  the  walls. 

The  great  artist  stood  on  the  platform,  high 
above  everybody.  His  long  white  hair  waved 
softly  round  his  marble  brow.  He  inclined  his 
wiry  body  before  the  homage. 

Then  the  piano  burst  out  under  his  hands. 
And  the  sounds  sang,  crept,  stormed  furiously, 
coaxed  voluptuously,  and  dissolved  in  a  smile. 
The  artist  with  the  marble  brow  conjured  up 


186  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

harmonies  from  the  piano  that  had  not  existed 
before  him  and  were  not  to  be  after  him. 

The  crowd  listened  with  bated  breath,  spell- 
bound. And  the  music  continued  like  a  swelling 
tide.  Then  it  became  tender  like  a  dying  echo. 
It  broke  forth  again  with  superb  impetuosity. 
Sounds  wrought  in  fire  rose  and  those  who  heard 
them  lived  the  creative  moments  of  Beethoven, 
Sebastian  Bach  and  Weber  over  again.  These 
sublime  moments  were  resuscitated  by  the  mas- 
ter whose  playing  was  forever  the  begetting  of 
gods. 

Anne  Ulwing's  soul  was  carried  on  glowing 
wings  by  Beethoven's  Appassionata  to  Thomas 
over  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  She  felt  that  the 
waves  of  the  music  swept  them  together  and  that 
they  became  swallowed  up  in  some  boundless 
glittering  veil. 

The  hall  was  delirious  again.  People  stood 
up.  Some  rushed  to  the  platform  and  continued 
to  applaud  there. 

The  artist  began  to  play  a  composition  of  his 
own.  And  then,  as  if  his  marble  countenance 
had  been  set  aflame,  fire  shone  on  his  brow,  fire 
streamed  from  his  eyes  and  the  creative  artist 
wandered  and  was  alone  by  himself. 

Anne  turned  towards  the  piano.  This  was 
different  from  anything  she  had  ever  heard. 
Long-forgotten  words  recurred  to  her  mind: 
"One  has  to  create  like  God.  Even  the  clay  has 
to  be  created  anew." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  187 

Applause  rose  again,  but  the  clapping  seemed 
more  restrained.  It  was  addressed  to  the  vir- 
tuoso, not  to  the  creator. 

"They  don't  understand  him,"  said  Anne  dis- 
appointed. 

"It  is  not  yet  safe  to  admire  this  music.  It 
came  too  early  ..."  and  again  the  words  of 
Adam  Walter  came  to  her  mind. 

Then  everything  was  forgotten.  Her  eyes 
searched  for  Thomas  in  the  crowd  thronging  to- 
wards the  exit.  In  the  dust-laden  heat  of  the 
cloak-room  people  pushed  each  other.  Under 
the  porch  the  doors  of  the  carriages  slammed. 
A  hoarse  voice  shouted  the  names  of  the  coach- 
men. 

Anne  saw  Florian  and  made  a  sign  to  him. 
Ulrich  Jb'rg  was  already  in  the  carriage. 

"I  should  like  to  walk,"  said  the  girl  hurriedly. 
The  old  gentleman  was  sleepy.  The  horses  of 
the  next  carriage  became  restive  in  the  cold.  The 
door  banged.  Anne  felt  herself  free. 

"Let  us  go.  .  .  ." 

Florian's  broad,  good-natured  face  turned  to 
her  for  an  instant  in  wonder.  Then  he  followed 
her  obediently  in  the  snow. 

A  motionless  figure  stood  at  the  street  corner 
under  a  lamp  peering  into  the  windows  of  the 
passing  carriages.  Suddenly  he  looked  no  longer 
towards  the  carriages.  His  dark  sad  eyes  rested 
on  Anne.  He  held  his  hat  low  in  his  hand  and 
snow  fell  on  his  thin  face. 


188  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

They  clasped  each  other's  hands  and  the  peace 
of  their  mind  was  like  the  languid  moment,  still 
incredible,  when  a  bodily  pain  has  abruptly 
ceased  to  torture. 

The  sound  of  rolling  carriages  spread  in  all 
directions.  Occasional  laughter  flared  up  among 
the  human  voices,  dying  away  at  a  distance. 
After  that,  only  the  snow  was  falling  in  slow, 
shiny  flakes.  By  tacit  agreement  they  started, 
side  by  side,  into  the  great  whiteness. 

Anne  did  not  feel  the  cold.  The  furs  slid 
down  her  bare  shoulders  and  her  low  shoes  sank 
deep  into  the  snow.  Illey  gazed  at  her  in  rap- 
ture, then  pulled  himself  together.  He  wanted 
to  appear  calm,  but  his  voice  was  strangely 
changed. 

"When  I  saw  the  posters  of  the  concert,  I  be- 
gan to  hope  that  we  might  meet.  It  all  hap- 
pened more  wonderfully  than  my  wildest  hopes." 

Anne  too  tried  to  control  herself. 

"So  you  really  did  not  go  for  the  music's  sake?" 
she  asked  in  a  whisper,  smiling. 

"I  never  go  to  concerts,"  said  Illey  candidly. 
"I  don't  understand  the  higher  music." 

Anne  turned  to  him  anxiously: 

"Then  you  did  not  understand  what  I  sang  to 
you?" 

"I  did  not  understand  the  music,  but  I  under- 
stood her  who  produced  it." 

Anne's  thought  became  confused.  Till  then 
she  had  thought  that  they  met,  united  in  music. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  189 

.  .  .  And  now  Thomas  told  her  that  he  did  not 
understand  the  only  language  which  her  soul, 
her  blood  could  speak.  ...  It  did  not  matter, 
nothing  mattered  so  long  as  he  was  here,  if  only 
he  could  be  at  her  side. 

She  drew  her  head  back  a  little  and  with  eyes 
half  shut  looked  longingly  at  Illey's  shoulders  as 
though  she  would,  by  the  intensity  of  her  regard, 
build  a  nest  there  for  her  little  head. 

Thomas  began  to  walk  at  a  noticeably  slow 
pace.  Then  Anne  too  noticed  the  snow-covered 
lamp  in  front  of  the  Ulwing's  house. 

"I  have  sought  this  moment  for  a  long 
time,"  said  Illey  quickly.  "I  was  seeking  it  on 
the  island  when  I  waited  for  you  so  long — till 
the  stars  appeared  and  the  ferryman  lit  a  fire 
for  the  night.  Next  day  I  was  there  too.  I 
have  pulled  the  bell  at  your  door  many  times.  I 
saw  your  face  through  the  window,  I  heard  you 
play  the  piano,  yet  I  was  told  you  were  not  in. 
Florian  avoided  my  eyes  when  he  said  that.  I 
understood.  It  was  not  desired  that  I  should 
come." 

"And  I  was  expecting  you."  There  was  so 
much  suffering  in  Anne's  veiled  voice  that  all 
became  clear  to  Illey. 

At  this  moment  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house. 
They  stepped  so  slowly  that  they  remained  prac- 
tically on  the  same  spot,  yet  the  distance  grew 
smaller.  The  porch  moved  out  of  the  wall  and 
came  to  meet  them  rapidly,  dark  through  the 


190  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

glittering  whiteness.  The  two  pillar-men  came 
with  it  too.  They  leaned  more  and  more  from 
under  the  cornice  and  looked  down  on  them. 

The  porch  stopped  with  a  jerk.  They  had 
reached  the  end  of  the  street.  Anne's  heart 
stood  still  with  anguish.  One  more  moment  and 
they  would  be  together  no  more. 

Florian  dropped  the  latch  key.  He  fumbled 
slowly,  very  slowly  with  his  hand  in  the  snow 
and  never  looked  up  once  while  doing  so. 

Thomas  Illey  bent  to  Anne : 

"We  cannot  live  any  more  without  each  other," 
and  he  kissed  her  hand. 

Snow  was  falling  slowly  and  through  the  snow- 
white  veil  they  looked  silently  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

When  Anne  walked  up  the  stairs  she  took 
Thomas's  kiss  with  her  lips  from  her  hand. 

Next  day  she  told  her  father  all  that  had  hap- 
pened and  when  in  the  afternoon  the  front  door 
bell  rang  Florian  opened  the  door  with  a  broad 
beaming  face  to  Thomas  Illey. 

Anne  heard  his  steps.  The  steps  passed  her 
door,  along  the  corridor,  towards  the  green  room. 

Thomas  Illey  spoke  little.  His  voice  was 
serious  and  firm.  John  Hubert  listened  to  him 
standing  and  only  offered  him  a  seat  when  he  had 
finished. 

"An  honourable  proposal.  .  .  ."  This  re- 
minded him  that  he  had  used  the  same  words  to 
Charles  Miinster.  He  laughed  and  then  spoke 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  191 

out  conscientiously,  as  he  had  decided  before- 
hand. He  spoke  of  the  loss  caused  by  the  fire, 
of  bad  years  of  business.  Of  Anne's  dowry. 
His  voice  became  feeble: 

"I  am  very  sorry  but  I  cannot  withdraw  any 
capital  from  the  business.  The  estate  must  re- 
main undivided.  This  was  decided  by  my  late 
father.  I  cannot  depart  from  this." 

Illey  waved  his  hand  politely,  disparagingly. 

"This  is  not  my  affair.  It  concerns  Miss  Anne 
alone." 

John  Hubert  stared  at  him  with  undisguised 
astonishment.  The  charm  of  the  ancient  name 
of  Illey  re-asserted  itself  on  him:  he  no  longer 
leaned  back  in  his  armchair.  He  sat  straight 
up  solemnly  and  felt  sorry  he  had  till  now  been 
so  business-like. 

"But  what  about  the  property  of  Ille,"  he  chose 
his  words  carefully,  "I  understand  that  it  is,  un- 
fortunately, in  strange  hands.  ..." 

Illey  turned  his  head  away.  He  realized  that 
he  had  just  been  showing  off  before  the  other  and 
felt  ashamed.  This  mild-eyed  good  old  business 
man  reminded  him  of  that  which  had  attracted 
him  at  first  to  Anne.  It  was  no  good  denying 
it;  in  those  times  he  thought  that  the  Ulwings 
were  rich  and  that  the  ancestral  property  of  Ille 
might  again  become  his  own.  He  now  tried  to 
justify  himself  for  those  old  thoughts  by  the 
longing  for  the  land  of  his  forebears.  There 
was  one  hope.  He  thrust  it  aside. 


192  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

John  Hubert  looked  at  him  expectantly. 

"Did  Mr.  Illey  not  think  of  buying  the  prop- 
erty back?" 

Many  a  proud,  disinterested  word  came  to 
Illey's  mind.  To  rise  above  everything,  even 
above  himself.  To  ask  for  nothing,  only  f  >r 
Anne  whom  he  loved.  He  turned  his  sharp 
gentlemanly  face  to  John  Hubert.  He  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes,  as  if  making  a  vow: 

"I  think  no  longer  of  buying  Ille  back." 

John  Hubert  enquired  politely  after  his  fam- 

ay. 

Thomas  slowly  turned  the  old  seal  ring  on 
his  finger.  He  began  to  speak  of  his  father. 
He  died  young  of  heart  disease.  His  mother 
followed  him.  Then  the  property  got  into  the 
auctioneer's  hands.  Only  a  swampy  wood  re- 
mained. Nobody  wanted  that.  And  a  little 
money.  He  wanted  to  learn  to  work.  This 
brought  him  to  town.  He  wanted  to  regain  pos- 
session of  the  land  through  his  own  exertions. 
Had  it  not  given  them  their  name,  or  had  it  not 
received  its  name  from  them?  However  it  was, 
the  land  of  Ille  and  the  Illeys  had  belonged  to 
each  other  for  nearly  a  thousand  years. 

Thomas  looked  down  wearily.  He  thought 
that  the  fate  of  the  Lord-Lieutenant's  grand- 
children had  overtaken  him  too. 

"I  studied  law,"  he  said  quietly,  "like  the  rest 
of  us;  politics  absorbed  me  and  I  did  not  learn 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  193 

to  work  for  money.  That  is  in  our  blood.  It 
is  only  when  work  is  done  gratuitously  that  the 
Hungarian  nobility  does  not  blush  to  work. 
Those  of  us  who  gave  themselves  for  money  be- 
came bad  men;  the  good  ones  were  ruined." 

John  Hubert  nodded  absent-mindedly.  He 
was  quite  reassured  now  that  he  had  ascertained 
that  Thomas  Illey  did  not  intend  to  withdraw 
Anne's  dowry  from  the  business.  He  proffered 
his  hand  to  him. 

"It  is  settled.  You  do  not  think  of  buying  Ille 
back.  You  won't  meddle  with  the  business. 
Now  we  can  look  at  the  ledgers  and  the  balance 
sheet." 

Thomas  smiled.  He  wanted  to  see  nothing 
but  Anne,  and  John  Hubert  opened  the  door  of 
the  sunshine  room  to  him.  There  everything  was 
bright  and  warm. 

When  the  new  spring  made  earth  and  sky 
bright  and  warm  around  the  old  house,  Mamsell 
Tini  stuck  a  wreathed  veil  into  Anne's  hair. 
Now,  like  a  white  cloud,  the  veil  floated  through 
the  old  rooms,  caressed  the  doors  and  walls. 
Anne  kissed  her  father. 

"Thank  you,  father,"  said  the  girl.  "I  am  so 
happy." 

Tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  John  Hubert. 
Life  had  no  more  joys  in  store  for  him.  .  .  . 

In  the  corridor  stood  old  Fiiger,  and  Mrs. 
Henrietta  in  a  starched  bonnet,  and  Mr.  Gem- 


194  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

ming.  Poor  little  Feuerlein,  deeply  stirred, 
wiped  his  eyes.  None  bowed  more  respectfully 
to  Thomas  Illey  than  Otto  FiigJr. 

Above,  high  above  the  roofs,  the  bells  clanged 
loud  from  the  church  steeple  of  Leopold's  town, 
bells  that  had  so  often  spoken  of  the  destinies  of 
the  Ulwings.  And  under  the  porch  the  two  pil- 
lar-men looked  down  into  the  flower-laden  car- 
riage. 

The  porch  repeated  once  over  the  sound  of  the 
parting  wheels,  then  the  house  fell  into  silence. 
Anne  carried  her  quiet  laugh  away  with  her  on 
her  honeymoon.  Everything  became  quiet,  the 
men,  the  days. 

John  Hubert  was  quite  alone.  A  letter  from 
Christopher,  one  from  Anne.  He  read  them 
both  many  times  over,  smiled  and  shut  his  eyes. 
Nowadays,  he  was  always  sleepy.  He  looked 
at  the  clock.  Too  early  to  go  to  bed.  He 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  quiet  rooms. 

From  the  green  room  the  light  of  the  lamp 
reached  the  dining  room.  The  sunshine  room 
received  light  from  a  lamp  in  the  street  which 
spread  over  the  ceiling.  The  old  nursery  was 
quite  dark. 

John  Hubert  folded  his  hands  behind  his  back 
and  walked  slowly  from  darkness  into  light,  from 
light  into  darkness.  He  thought  of  his  life.  It 
had  been  like  that  too,  but  now  that  he  looked 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  195 

back  on  it  there  seemed  to  have  been  more  dark- 
ness than  light. 

He  could  not  understand  what  made  him  think 
of  this  just  now  when  his  head  was  weary  enough. 
For  an  instant  he  intended  sending  for  the  doc- 
tor. Then  he  felt  too  tired  to  do  it. 

While  he  slowly  turned  the  key  in  his  watch, 
he  felt  giddy,  yet  he  put  all  the  various  objects 
from  his  pocket  into  the  alabaster  tray.  His 
keys,  his  penknife  and  the  cigar  case  embroidered 
with  beads.  This  he  carried  as  a  habit,  having 
renounced  smoking  several  years  ago. 

Next  day  was  Sunday.  He  did  not  get  out 
of  bed.  From  time  to  time  Tini  came  in  to  ask 
if  he  wanted  anything.  He  opened  his  eyes, 
nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

Gardos,  the  physician,  reassured  him. 

"It  will  pass  away;  it  is  only  a  little  overwork," 
and  prescribed  nux  vomica. 

"No,  you  must  not  write  to  the  children." 

During  the  week  John  Hubert  was  up.  On 
Sunday  he  again  stayed  in  bed  and  felt  better 
there.  A  letter  came  from  Anne.  He  smiled 
at  it.  So  there  was  one  person  in  the  world  who 
owed  him  her  happiness.  .  .  .  He  smoothed  his 
blanket  down  and  turned  to  the  wall. 

A  loud  buzzing  woke  him  at  night.  His  head 
turned,  the  bed  turned,  so  did  the  room.  And 
he  breathed  with  difficulty.  He  wanted  to  un- 
button his  shirt  collar,  but  did  not  succeed.  He 


196  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

sat  up  suddenly  and  with  his  accustomed  move- 
ment put  his  hand  several  times,  to  his  neck  as  if 
to  put  his  necktie  right. 

Then  he  fell  back  and  moved  no  more. 

That  night  John  Hubert  Ulwing  died,  cor- 
rectly, without  much  ado,  just  as  he  had  lived. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  house  was  empty  and  silence  nestled 
between  its  walls.  It  was  a  memorable 
event  for  the  corridor  to  hear  the  sound 
of  steps.  The  ticking  of  the  marble 
clock  resounded  through  all  the  rooms,  no  noise 
impeding  its  progress. 

Thus  did  Anne  find  the  house  when  she  came 
back  with  her  husband  from  the  interrupted  jour- 
ney which  was  to  remain  in  her  memory  like  a 
broken  dream. 

Days  without  thoughts.  Gentle  words. 
Pure,  girlish  fears.  Then  she  became  accus- 
tomed to  Thomas's  embraces.  The  news  of  her 
father's  death  roused  her  and  she  could  dream 
her  dream  no  more.  It  was  gone  for  ever. 
Another  came. 

Real  life  took  its  place  and  the  first  year 
passed  away. 

Slowly  the  peace  of  the  old  house  became 
bright  again.  Now  and  then  the  rooms  began  to 
laugh  timidly.  They  stopped  suddenly,  ashamed 
of  themselves,  as  if  remembering  those  who  had 
left  by  the  door  never  to  come  back  again. 

Another  year  went  by. 

The  yellow  walls  of  the  old  house  were  warm 
in  the  sun.  In  the  garden  the  beds  put  forth 

197 


198  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

blossom-laden  rosebushes,  climbing  garlands  of 
roses. 

The  rooms  now  laughed  freely  with  the  rip- 
pling laughter  of  a  child.  And  the  house  smiled 
to  itself,  like  some  good  old  patriarch  who  has 
regained  youth. 

At  that  time  Anne  sang  some  wonderful  little 
songs.  She  had  never  learned  them,  they  came 
of  themselves  and  their  soothing  rhythm  was  like 
the  rocking  of  a  cradle.  Then  she  lifted  her 
son  with  that  mysterious  movement,  which  is 
more  exalted  than  the  gesture  of  love,  a  move- 
ment secretly  known  by  her  arms  long  ago. 
And  she  thought  that  it  was  this  that  linked  all 
humanity.  An  endless,  blessed  chain,  a  chain 
wrought  of  women's  arms  over  the  earth,  be- 
ginning with  the  first  woman  and  to  end  with 
the  last  child. 

"Mamma,"  babbled  little  George.  Anne  re- 
peated in  whispers  the  word  which  was  bestowed 
on  her,  which  she  herself  had  never  uttered  to  her 
mother ;  she  looked  at  the  fading  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Christina.  She  began  to  listen.  The  street  door 
opened.  Steps  came  along  the  corridor.  .  .  . 

"Thomas,  I  was  longing  for  you!"  She  would 
have  liked  to  say  more,  something  warmer.  She 
wanted  to  tell  him  her  love,  but  the  words  were 
bashful  and  changed  as  they  crossed  her  lips. 
She  leaned  towards  her  husband,  ready  to  be 
kissed. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  199 

Illey  did  not  notice  it;  he  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else.  He  began  to  read  a  letter. 

"From  home.  .  .  ." 

"From  home?  ...  Is  not  this  your  home?" 
Anne's  head,  held  till  now  sideways  in  a  listening 
attitude,  rose  slowly. 

Thomas  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing  when  Ille 
was  in  question.  Everybody,  the  old  steward, 
the  bailiff,  the  agent,  the  priest,  anybody  who  was 
in  difficulties,  came  to  him,  as  if  he  were  still  the 
landlord.  He  did  their  errands  and  his  eyes 
shone  when  he  spoke  of  them. 

Anne  looked  at  him  motionless.  A  feeling 
came  over  her  of  which  she  could  never  rid  her- 
self whenever  Thomas  spoke  of  Ille.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  her  husband  abandoned  her  and  went 
far  away  to  some  other  place. 

"Thomas,"  she  whispered,  as  if  to  recall  him. 

Illey  smiled  inattentively.  He  was  still  read- 
ing the  letter.  Anne's  face  became  grave  and 
cold.  The  tenderness  which  had  till  then  flowed 
bootlessly  from  her  shrank  back  painfully  into 
her  heart. 

"No,  don't  go  away.  Come  here.  Read 
this.  .  .  ." 

But  Anne  would  not  go  nearer  him.  She  held 
her  head  rigidly  erect.  After  the  vain  incli- 
nation to  tenderness  she  hoped  to  regain  the  bal- 
ance in  this  way. 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Thomas,"  and  animosity 


200  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

sounded  in  her  voice,  "after  all  I  don't  know  those 
people  of  yours." 

"Why  do  you  speak  like  that?"  He  looked 
at  her  reproachfully.  Again  Anne's  voice  baf- 
fled the  hope  in  his  soul,  with  which  he  thought 
of  Ille,  which  still  gained,  against  his  will,  the 
upper  hand  over  him.  ...  If  he  were  to  tell 
her  everything,  if  he  explained  to  her  that  every- 
thing belonging  to  Ille  was  grown  to  his  heart, 
that  he  was  craving  for  his  land  .  .  .  would  she 
understand?  The  words  shaped  themselves  so 
intensely  in  his  mind  that  he  nearly  heard  them 
sound.  But  they  seemed  abasing,  as  if  they  were 
begging.  He  felt  that  he  could  never  utter  them. 

In  that  moment  Anne  saw  her  husband's  coun- 
tenance hard  and  frigid. 

"Why  are  you  angry,  Thomas?"  Her  eyes 
wandered  to  the  letter  from  Ille.  "Don't  you 
understand?  It  will  all  be  empty  talk.  All 
this  is  so  strange  to  me." 

"You  are  right!"  Illey  gave  a  short  reproach- 
ful laugh.  It  dawned  on  him  suddenly  that 
Anne  was  strange  to  all  that  which  lived  so  viv- 
idly in  his  blood  and  his  past.  Strange,  and  per- 
haps she  wanted  to  remain  so. 

While  they  were  silent  it  seemed  to  both  of 
them  that  they  had  drawn  further  apart  from 
each  other,  though  neither  of  them  had  moved. 
Then  it  was  Thomas  who  turned  away.  Anne 
looked  after  him. 

In  the  beginning,  when  they  could  not  under- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  201 

stand  each  other,  they  forgot  it  in  an  embrace. 
Later  on,  the  weak,  helpless  cry  of  a  baby  in  the 
next  room  was  enough  to  remove  everything  from 
their  minds  and  to  make  them  run  to  it  side  by 
side;  before  they  had  reached  the  door  they  had 
grasped  each  other's  hands. 

On  this  occasion  each  of  them  remained  alone. 
The  words  he  had  spoken  weighed  cold  on  Anne's 
memory;  those  he  had  kept  back  made  her  anx- 
ious. She  played  with  her  little  son  absent- 
mindedly.  She  fumbled  idly  in  her  work-table's 
drawers.  She  gave  that  up  too.  She  wanted 
to  go  to  her  husband,  lean  her  head  against  his 
shoulders,  and  ask  and  answer  till  there  remained 
nothing  between  them  that  was  obscure  and  un- 
certain. 

But  Thomas  had  visitors.  From  the  green 
room  the  voice  of  gentlemen  reached  the  dining 
room  and  the  smoke  of  their  pipes  pervaded  the 
place.  They  talked  of  the  reconciliation  of  the 
King  and  the  country,  of  the  coronation,  of  those 
who  performed  it,  of  Parliament,  of  great  na- 
tional transformations. 

Since  the  constitution  had  been  re-established, 
Illey  had  entered  the  service  of  the  State;  he 
worked  in  the  Ministry  of  Agriculture.  Anne 
heard  him  in  the  adjoining  room  make  some  re- 
marks on  intensive  culture. 

How  coolly  and  intelligently  Thomas  spoke, 
while  her  own  heart  was  still  heavy  and  sore. 
Suddenly  her  husband's  laughter  reached  her 


202  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

ears  through  the  closed  door.  Her  eyebrows 
stiffened  and  straightened,  as  if  she  had  been 
hurt.  .  .  . 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Thomas  Illey  be- 
gan to  go  shooting  more  often.  His  friends 
who  owned  property  in  the  country  invited  him. 
Down  there  in  Ille,  in  his  swampy  wood,  game 
was  plentiful.  When  he  was  free  from  his  of- 
fice he  took  his  gun  and  was  off.  Then  he  came 
home  again  happy,  with  a  sunburnt  face. 

In  the  green  room  arms  stood  in  the  old  cup- 
board where  Ulwing  the  builder  used  to  keep 
his  plans.  Above  the  couch  the  portrait  of  the 
architects  Fischer  von  Erlach  and  Mansard  were 
replaced  by  English  prints  of  hunting  scenes. 
Cartridges  were  kept  in  the  small  recesses  of 
the  writing  table  with  the  many  drawers.  A 
finely  wrought  hunting  knife  lay  in  front  of  the 
marble  clock. 

Anne  sometimes  felt  that  Thomas  did  not  love 
the  old  house  or  the  green  room  or  the  cosy,  well- 
padded  good  old  furniture. 

"I  say,  Anne,  these  chairs  here  stand  round 
the  table  like  fat  middle-class  women  in  the  mar- 
ket. They  hold  their  arms  akimbo  and  are 
nearly  bursting  with  health." 

He  laughed  quietly. 

"Is  it  possible  you  cannot  see  how  funny  they 
are?  At  home,  in  Ille,  there  is  a  similar  arm- 
chair in  the  nursery.  We  called  it  'Frau  Mayer* 
and  put  a  basket  on  its  arm." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  203 

Anne  blushed  a  little  and,  disconcerted,  looked 
at  the  chequered  linen  covers. 

"They  insult  us,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to  the 
armchair,  "though  we  belong  together.  .  .  ." 
She  thought  suddenly  of  the  staircase  in  the 
Geramb  house,  of  Bertha  Bajmoczy  .  .  .  the 
old  indignity  .  .  .  the  old  resentment.  Then, 
as  if  her  grandfather's  voice  echoed  in  her  mem- 
ory, "I  am  a  free  citizen." 

She  raised  her  head.  Her  young  neck  bent 
back  disdainfully. 

"How  beautiful  you  are,  like  this,"  said 
Thomas  and  his  voice  altered. 

The  woman's  shoulder  trembled.  That  was 
the  old  voice  that  thrilled  her  like  a  touch.  They 
looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  and  then  she 
disappeared  in  Thomas's  embrace. 

Anne  felt  that  in  her  husband's  arms  all  her 
cares  vanished,  that  she  herself  passed  away. 
Her  head  fell  back,  no  longer  with  pride  but 
with  that  feminine  movement  which  expresses  the 
conquest  of  the  conqueror. 

"My  love.  .  .  ." 

They  held  each  other  for  a  long  time  tightly 
embraced  and  the  silence  of  rare  and  secret  re- 
unions came  over  them.  When  the  silence  broke, 
the  reunion  was  ended  and  they  both  withdrew 
into  themselves. 

Later  in  the  day,  Anne  came  running  through 
the  rooms  with  a  telegram  and  joy  rang  in  her 
voice : 


204  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"From  Christopher!'* 

"Is  he  still  in  Baden-Baden  ?",sneered  Thomas. 

"He  is  coming  to-night." 

"It  is  time  .  .  ." 

Anne  cast  her  eyes  down  sadly.  She  always 
felt  some  irritation  in  Thomas's  voice  when  he 
spoke  of  Christopher  and  that  pained  her.  It 
was  true  that  since  their  father's  death  Chris- 
topher had  travelled  a  great  deal,  but  Otto  Fiiger 
sent  him  regular  reports  and  when  he  was  home 
he  worked. 

Business  must  have  been  excellent.  There 
was  more  luxury  in  the  house  than  ever.  Chris- 
topher had  replaced  the  old  boards  by  parquet 
flooring.  Carpets  were  laid  on  the  stairs  and 
two  pairs  of  horses  stood  in  the  stable.  A  man- 
servant served  at  table  in  Netti's  place.  Florian 
opened  the  gate  in  livery.  Anne  received  as 
much  money  as  she  liked  for  housekeeping,  that 
was  all  she  understood.  But  if  Thomas  was  not 
content,  why  did  he  keep  silent?  Surely  it  would 
have  been  his  duty  to  look  through  the  business 
books.  Why  did  he  shrink  from  it? 

Anne  believed  that  he  despised  the  business 
and,  as  in  her  mind  the  business  and  the  name  of 
Ulwing  were  inseparable,  she  felt  affronted 
by  her  husband's  aloof  indifference.  In  the  be- 
ginning, she  had  frequently  raised  the  question 
with  Thomas.  He  always  maintained  a  repel- 
ling silence. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  205 

She  turned  to  him,  but  her  husband,  as  if 
divining  her  thoughts,  anticipated  her. 

"Let  us  leave  that  alone,  darling.  I  won't 
interfere  with  the  affairs  of  the  Ulwing  business." 
He  thought  of  what  her  father  had  told  him  when 
he  asked  for  his  daughter's  hand.  A  man  must 
keep  his  word  even  if  he  has  not  given  it  formally. 
He  put  his  arms  out  and  drew  his  wife  onto  his 
knee. 

"Let  us  stay  together.  I  have  to  leave  to- 
night, I  am  going  shooting  to-morrow." 

Anne  put  her  arms  round  Thomas's  neck. 
However  much  she  desired  it,  she  would  not  ask 
her  husband  in  words  not  to  go  away  from  her. 
But  to-day  she  knew  something  that  was  sure 
to  retain  him.  She  smiled  into  his  face. 

"Do  you  know  what  day  to-morrow  is?" 

Thomas  became  cheerful. 

"Of  course,  Sunday.     I  can  go  to  shoot." 

"The  third  anniversary  of  our  wedding," 
whispered  Anne. 

"Is  that  so?  To-morrow?"  Thomas's  eyes 
became  affectionate  with  grateful  remembrance 
and  he  pressed  his  wife  passionately  to  his  breast. 
He  felt  her  slender  body  bend  from  his  knee  into 
his  arms.  Her  small,  cool  face,  nestled  close  to 
his.  Her  hair  smelt  of  violets.  It  made  him 
reel.  .  .  . 

"He  does  not  say  he  will  stay  at  home," 
thought  Anne,  "he  never  says  anything."  Her 


206  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

soul  felt  degraded  by  the  caresses  bestowed  on 
her  body.  "Never  anything  but  this.  ...  I 
don't  want  it."  She  pusheif  her  husband 
brusquely  away  and  arranged  her  hair. 

Thomas  felt  a  cold  void  in  his  lap.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  looked  disconcerted  into  the  air,  then 
he  collected  himself.  His  love  was  a  request 
from  a  man,  not  the  humble  supplication  of  a 
beggar.  He  frowned  obstinately. 

"When  does  your  train  start?"  asked  Anne, 
exhausting  herself  in  the  effort  to  appear  un- 
affected. 

The  woman's  voice  appeared  quite  strange  to 
Illey.  "She  does  not  ask  me  to  stay.  She  sends 
me  away  from  her,"  and  his  countenance  became 
at  once  dark  and  hostile  from  the  memory  of 
thwarted  desire.  He  pulled  out  his  watch.  He 
returned  it  to  his  pocket  without  looking  at  it. 
He  began  to  hurry.  He  made  his  guns  ready. 
The  cartridge  bag  exhaled  something  left  in  it 
by  the  woods.  The  straps  cracked  delicately, 
just  like  out  there,  when  they  rubbed  together 
over  one's  shoulders;  and  his  thoughts  were  no 
more  in  the  room,  but  were  wandering  far  afield 
over  boundless,  free  lands,  under  the  shining  sun. 

Anne  said  no  more  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  evening,  while  putting  her  little  son  to 
sleep,  she  thought  of  past  anniversaries.  .  .  . 
Since  when  had  life  changed  so  much  between 
her  and  Thomas?  The  change  must  have  come 
slowly,  she  had  not  noticed  it. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  207 

The  child  was  asleep.  Anne  opened  the  door 
of  the  sunshine  room  and,  after  a  long  time,  un- 
consciously sat  down  to  the  piano.  She  did 
not  play,  she  did  not  sing,  just  leaned  her  head 
on  it  as  if  she  were  leaning  it  on  somebody's 
shoulder. 

When  Christopher  arrived  he  found  his  sister 
there  near  the  mute  instrument. 

Anne  looked  at  her  brother  aghast.  How  he 
had  changed  of  late.  Clothes  of  an  English  cut 
hung  on  his  body.  His  once  lovely  hair  with  the 
silver  shine  had  thinned  round  his  deep  blue- 
veined  temples.  The  light  eyelashes  appeared 
heavy  over  his  exhausted  eyes. 

"And  Thomas,  gone  a-shooting?" 

"Have  you  been  ill?"  asked  Anne,  sitting 
down  opposite  to  him  in  the  dining  room. 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?  No,  just  a  trifle." 
Christopher  ate  hastily,  speaking  all  the  time  in 
a  snatchy  way.  "There  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  me,  only  my  nerves  are  bad  just  now  when 
I  shall  stand  most  in  need  of  them.  I  want  to 
achieve  great  things.  I  have  learned  many  new 
things.  But  they  require  nerve." 

He  lit  a  cigar;  the  match  moved  queerly  be- 
tween his  fingers.  "In  the  past  life  depended 
on  the  muscles  of  man,  so  development  of  muscles 
was  the  principal  aim  of  education.  Xow  we 
have  to  rely  for  everything  on  nerves,  and  no- 
body looks  after  them."  His  mouth  twitched 
slightly  to  one  side.  "Tell  me,  Anne,  do  you 


208  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

feel  sometimes  as  if  strings  quivered  in  your 
neck  high  up  to  the  brain?" 

"No,  I  don't  feel  that,"  said  Anne,  and  stared 
at  him. 

Christopher  laughed,  ill  at  ease. 

"Nor  do  I  feel  it,  I  only  heard  it  spoken  of. 
A  friend  of  mine  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  nerves." 

Anne  pressed  her  folded  hands  convulsively, 
but  her  face  remained  calm. 

"Tell  your  friend  that  he  is  ill  and  that  he 
better  attend  to  it  at  once." 

Christopher  blew  the  smoke  into  the  air. 

"The  old  ones  had  more  resistance  than  we. 
Our  generation  received  so  many  shocks  when 
young.  Do  you  remember  the  shell  striking  the 
house?  And  the  fire  .  .  .  those  among  us  who 
were  weak  were  broken  by  it,  those  who  were 
strong  became  stronger.  You  became  stronger. 
You  are  lucky,  Anne,  and  it  is  good  to  be  near 
you,  you  are  so  sure  and  cool." 

"Then  do  remain  always  near  me,  Christo- 
pher." 

"Yes.  By  the  way,  do  you  sometimes  start 
up  in  terror  at  night?  You  understand,  one 
can't  ask  these  things  from  a  stranger  .  .  .  and 
do  you  never  feel  when  you  are  alone,  that  some- 
body is  standing  behind  your  back?  He  stands 
near  the  wall  and  watches  what  you  are  doing." 

Anne  looked  horrified  at  her  brother. 

"But  that  is  folly.  .  .  ." 

"Stove-fairies  and  piano-mice,"  said  Christo- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  209 

pher  and  smiled  wearily  towards  the  green  room. 
"And  little  George?"  He  laughed  with  forced 
mirth,  "he  must  be  quite  a  little  gentleman.  I 
brought  him  a  horse  from  Paris.  It  has  an  en- 
gine inside,  you  wind  it  up  like  a  clock  and  then 
it  runs.  What  wonders  people  invent  now- 
adays!" 

He  began  to  speak  of  cities,  countries  ...  of 
the  French  Emperor,  the  Paris  Stock  Exchange, 
the  dresses  of  the  Empress  Eugenie.  All  the 
time  he  smoked  one  cigar  after  another;  after  a 
time  weariness  disappeared  from  his  voice  and 
his  eyes  became  livelier.  When  he  went  down- 
stairs he  whistled.  Anne  heard  it  clearly  but  it 
did  not  reassure  her. 

Since  his  sister's  marriage  Christopher  had 
lived  on  the  ground  floor.  He  had  adapted  two 
rooms  of  the  old  office  which  had  been  empty 
since  the  business  had  dwindled. 

Flowers  stood  on  the  chest  of  drawers  in  the 
deep  vaulted  room.  He  knew  Anne  had  put 
them  there.  It  was  she  who  had  put  the  lace 
mat  on  the  night  table.  For  an  instant  he  felt 
happy  at  being  home  again  and  gave  orders  to 
the  servant  not  to  wake  him  in  the  morning;  he 
wanted  to  sleep.  Then  he  remembered  that  he 
had  business  on  the  morrow  with  his  book-keeper. 
He  had  signed  many  bills  in  blank  during  his 
journey,  so  that  Otto  Fiiger  might  send  him 
some  money.  He  had  lost  incessantly  at  Baden- 
Baden  and  his  stay  in  Paris  had  made  a  serious 


210  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

breach  in  his  purse.  To-morrow  all  that  would 
have  to  be  reckoned  up.  Hazy  ignorance  was 
comfortable,  but  the  reckoning  day  was  loath- 
some. 

He  wanted  to  chase  away  unpleasant  thoughts. 
They  were  like  wasps,  returned  to  the  attack,  and 
stung  him. 

And  the  business?  How  had  the  various  en- 
terprises prospered  while  he  had  been  away? 
The  weekly  reports  were  in  his  valise.  He  had 
never  found  time  to  read  them  through.  It 
didn't  matter.  He  had  studied  the  Stock  Ex- 
change in  Paris.  People  got  rich  there  in  one 
day.  All  that  was  required  was  a  cool  head. 
One  must  not  lose  one's  nerve.  How  much 
money  he  had  seen!  How  much! 

He  extinguished  the  candle.  He  lay  on  his 
back  with  open  eyes.  For  a  time  his  thoughts 
gave  him  a  rest.  The  darkness  was  quite  empty. 
How  many  things  had  passed  through  his  dark- 
nesses! Ancient  fairies  and  dwarfs.  Sophie, 
his  first  love.  Girls  from  the  streets,  actresses, 
women,  beautiful  grand  ladies,  cold  and  indiffer- 
ent in  day  time,  passionate  and  exacting  at  night. 
Enough.  They  interested  him  no  more.  The 
only  thing  that  mattered  to  him  now  was  money, 
the  mighty  mass  of  money  which  flows  inces- 
santly between  the  hands  of  men,  like  a  great 
dominating  river,  from  one  end  of  the  world  to 
the  other.  One  had  only  to  dig  a  channel  for  the 
river  and  it  would  flow  wherever  one  liked.  He 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  211 

saw  it  on  the  Paris  Stock  Exchange.  How 
much  money.  .  .  . 

The  darkness  of  Christopher's  night  was  sud- 
denly empty  no  more. 

Money!  .  .  .  That  was  the  whole  secret. 
....  And  he  began  to  long  for  it  as  he  used 
to  yearn  in  days  gone  by  for  women. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  hanging  lamp  over  the  table  in  the 
green  room  had  been  lit. 
Anne's    hand    fell    slowly    from    the 
child's    cap    she    was    crocheting.     She 
had  been  aware  for  a  long  time  of  the  irregular 
sounds    of    Christopher's    steps.     Her    brother 
walked  restlessly  up  and  down  the  rooms.     Oc- 
casionally he  bumped  into  the  open  wings  of 
doors,  then  again  he  would  make  aimless,  un- 
necessary circuits  round  the  furniture. 

Anne  noticed  that  Thomas  dropped  the  news- 
paper he  was  reading  upon  his  knees.  He  too 
was  listening  to  the  disordered  steps. 

Again  Christopher  came  in  collision  with  a 
door,  then  he  stopped  nervously  near  the  table. 

"Land  fetches  a  big  price  nowadays."  While 
he  spoke  he  lit  a  cigar  and  the  smoke  came  in 
puffs  from  his  lips.  "It  will  never  again  fetch 
as  much.  We  ought  to  sell  some  of  the  building 
sites ;  we  have  too  many ;  at  any  rate  I  know  of  a 
better  investment." 

Anne  did  not  like  the  idea.  She  would  have 
liked  to  keep  everything  as  it  had  been  left  to 
them  by  their  grandfather. 

"Our  grandfather  would  be  the  first  to  exploit 
this  exorbitant  boom,"  said  Christopher  with  un- 

212 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  213 

necessary  temper.  "You  don't  understand  these 
things,  my  dear." 

Anne  sighed. 

"You  are  right.     Speak  to  Thomas  about  it." 

"To  me?"  Illey  laughed  frigidly.  Looking  at 
Christopher  his  expression  became  haughty.  "I 
understand  that  you  gamble  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change and  that  you  win.  Take  care.  It  is 
always  like  that  at  the  start  and  then  fortune 
turns.  People  only  stop  it  when  they  have 
broken  their  necks." 

"You  have  to  remain  cool,  nothing  else," 
growled  Christopher,  "one  must  not  lose  one's 
nerve.  Anyhow,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
What  is  your  opinion  about  selling  building 
sites?" 

Thomas  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  have  no  opinion.  I  am  unacquainted  with 
the  circumstances."  He  was  aware  that  his  ob- 
stinate reticence  was  nothing  but  the  expression 
of  his  disappointed  hopes.  Yet  he  could  not 
alter  it. 

Christopher  was  delighted  that  everything 
went  so  smoothly.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had 
already  sold  some  of  the  sites.  Now  that  the 
deed  was  done,  he  was  given  the  required  con- 
sent. He  breathed  more  freely.  He  would  sell 
the  old  timber  yard  too.  Otto  Fiiger  was  a 
clever  go-between. 

Anne  took  up  her  work  again.  Thomas's 
aloof  indifference  revolted  her.  She  had  lost  her 


214  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

confidence  in  Christopher.  She  suspected  Otto 
Fiiger,  but  she  did  not  understand  business. 
She  had  never  been  taught  anything  but  to  sing, 
to  embroider,  to  play  the  piano  and  to  dance. 

She  decided  that  when  her  little  girl  was  born, 
she  would  make  her  learn  everything  that  her 
mother  did  not  know.  And  while  still  young, 
she  should  be  taught  that  people  can  never  be 
entirely  happy.  She  would  tell  it  to  her  simply, 
so  that  she  could  understand  and  not  be  obliged 
later  on  to  hug  to  herself  something  that  nobody 
wants  and  that  is  always  unconsciously  trampled 
on  by  those  to  whom  it  is  vainly  proffered. 

But  the  little  girl,  for  whom  Anne  was  waiting 
in  the  old  house,  never  came.  In  spring  the 
second  boy  was  born  and  he  was  christened  Lad- 
islaus  Thomas  John  Christopher  in  the  old 
church,  now  rebuilt,  at  Leopold's  town. 

After  that  Anne  was  ill  for  a  long  time.  The 
cold  gleam,  which  had  formerly  made  her  glance 
so  hard,  disappeared  from  her  eye.  The  lines 
of  her  fine  eyebrows  softened  down.  Her  boyish 
bony  little  hands  became  softer,  more  womanly. 

Then  she  was  about  again,  but  the  shadow  of 
her  sufferings  remained  on  her  face. 

Thomas  was  courteous  and  attentive.  He 
brought  her  books.  For  hours  he  read  to  her 
aloud,  without  stopping,  as  if  driven;  he  seemed 
to  fear  Anne's  gaze  which  his  eye  had  to  face 
when  he  put  the  book  down.  What  did  this 
gaze  want?  Did  it  say  anything,  or  ask,  or  beg, 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  215 

or  command?  No,  Anne  wanted  nothing  more 
from  him.  The  time  was  past  when.  .  .  .  He 
buried  his  face  sadly  in  his  hands. 

Year  by  year  Thomas  became  more  taciturn 
and  if  Anne  asked  him  whether  anything  hurt 
him  or  if  he  had  any  worries,  he  shook  his  head 
impatiently.  No,  there  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  him;  that  was  just  his  Hungarian  nature. 

But  when  he  took  his  son  on  his  knee  he  told 
him  tales  of  big  forests,  an  ancestral  country 
house,  an  old  garden.  Fields,  horses,  harvests 
in  the  glaring  sun  .  .  .  and  his  face  became  re- 
juvenated and  he  held  his  head  as  of  old,  in  the 
little  glen,  when  he  turned  towards  the  sun. 

Anne  had  become  accustomed  not  to  be  told 
these  things  by  her  husband.  Nor  did  she  men- 
tion Ille  when  letters  in  a  female  hand  came 
thence  and  one  handwriting,  with  its  shapeless, 
rustic  characters,  repeated  itself  frequently. 
When  once  it  happened  that  Otto  Fiiger  brought 
the  mail  up,  Anne  found  one  of  these  letters  on 
the  piano.  She  took  it  into  her  hand  and  the 
contact  made  her  tremble.  She  had  to  struggle 
against  herself ;  was  it  pride,  honesty,  or  coward- 
ice? She  put  the  envelope  untouched  on 
Thomas's  table.  She  did  not  question  him,  she 
did  not  complain,  but  she  never  spoke  of  Ille 
again. 

From  that  time  the  name  of  this  strange  land 
became  a  ghost  in  the  house.  They  never  pro- 


216  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

nounced  it,  but  it  was  ever  there  between  them. 

It  seemed  to  Anne  that  even  now  it  was  steal- 
ing, hostile,  through  the  silence,  drawing  Thomas 
away  from  her.  Desperate  fear  possessed  her; 
she  felt  that  she  was  going  to  be  left  alone  in  icy 
darkness  with  no  way  out  of  it. 

"Thomas,"  she  said  imploringly,  as  if  calling 
for  help,  "why  can't  we  talk  to  each  other?" 

Illey  raised  his  head  from  between  his  hands. 

"Are  you  reproaching  me  with  my  nature 
again?" 

Anne  perceived  impatient  irritation  in  her 
husband's  voice. 

"I  did  not  mean  it  like  that";  the  woman 
stopped  short  as  if  a  hand  had  been  put  rudely 
before  her  mouth. 

Night  was  pouring  slowly  into  the  sunshine 
room.  They  could  not  see  each  other's  faces 
when  Thomas  began  suddenly  to  listen;  he 
seemed  to  hear  suppressed  sobs.  .  .  .  No,  it  was 
imagination;  his  wife  never  cried.  They  had 
been  silent  for  such  a  long  time  that  Anne  had 
merely  fallen  asleep  in  the  corner  of  the  couch. 
Illey  rose  and  closed  the  door  noiselessly  behind 
him. 

During  Anne's  illness  Thomas  had  moved 
from  the  common  bedroom  into  the  back  room 
which  had  once  belonged  to  Ulwing  the  builder. 
When  she  improved,  he  did  not  himself  know 
why,  he  remained  there.  His  wife  did  not  op- 
pose it  and  he  was  fond  of  the  room.  From  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  217 

window  he  could  touch  the  leaves  of  the  chestnut 
tree  and  after  rain  the  smell  of  the  damp  earth  in 
the  garden  reached  him. 

He  sat  on  the  window  sill.  Outside,  the  trees 
whispered. 

Thomas's  mind  was  gone  from  among  the 
closed  walls.  Desire  carried  his  soul  beyond  the 
town.  He  strolled  alone  and  was  met  by  a  breeze 
smelling  of  rain.  How  he  loved  that !  How  he 
loved  everything  out  of  doors:  the  smells,  the 
colours,  the  sounds,  the  steaming  bogs  of  boiling 
summer,  the  frozen  roads  of  winter,  where  one's 
footsteps  ring  and  the  branches  crack  as  they 
fall.  Then  the  wind  rises  from  the  soughing 
reeds  and  life  trembles  over  the  world.  In  the 
furrows,  the  water  soaks  into  the  ground.  The 
wood  resounds  with  the  amorous  complaint  of 
birds.  Call  .  .  .  answer.  Do  they  always  find 
their  mate? 

In  his  heart  Thomas  nearly  felt  the  silence  of 
the  woods.  The  seed  of  reproduction  falls  in 
this  trembling,  solemn  peace.  Birds  float  slowly 
in  the  sunshine.  When  the  hour  of  the  crops 
comes,  summer  is  there.  Harvest  is  in  full 
swing  everywhere  and  his  blood  is  haunted  with 
inherited  memories.  How  often,  how  often,  he 
has  stopped  at  the  edge  of  somebody  else's  wheat- 
field  and  clenched  his  fist.  Nowhere  in  the  world 
is  anything  growing  for  him. 

This  memory  brought  sad  autumn  weather  to 
his  mind.  A  deep  sad  fall  .  .  .  and  he  comes 


218  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

in  a  mist  towards  the  town.  He  comes  like  an 
escaped  convict  brought  bacl^  to  his  prison. 
Again  the  paved  streets  and  narrow  strips  of 
smoky  sky.  Office,  blotches  of  ink,  paper  and 
the  old  house,  which  is  strange  to  him,  and  the 
lovely  cold  woman  who  does  not  understand  him. 

Dim  recollections  stole  upon  him.  Again  he 
seemed  to  feel  Anne's  two  little  protesting  hands 
on  his  breast  and  that  unsympathetic  look  which 
had  more  than  once  repelled  his  desire. 

He  stretched  his  hand  out  of  the  window  to- 
wards the  chestnut  tree.  He  picked  a  young 
shoot.  The  bough  yielded  itself  easily,  moist, 
fresh.  .  .  . 

He  thought  of  someone  who  had  yielded  her- 
self as  easily  as  the  young  shoot.  She  had  been 
bred  there  on  his  old  land,  the  daughter  of  the 
keeper  in  the  swampy  wood.  Humble,  as  the 
former  serf -girls  had  been  with  his  ancestors, 
pretty  too,  with  laughing  eyes.  She  never  asked 
what  her  master  was  brooding  about,  and  yet  she 
knew.  The  woods,  the  meadows,  she  too  thought 
of  them  and  she  sang  of  them  with  the  very  voice 
of  the  earth.  One  did  not  need  to  listen,  one 
could  whistle,  she  expected  no  praise.  No  more 
do  the  birds.  .  .  . 

Thomas  could  not  remember  how  it  was  at  first 
that  he  desired  the  girl.  He  simply  wanted  her, 
like  the  perfume  of  the  woods,  the  soft  meadows 
under  his  feet.  His  inherited  man-conscience  did 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  219 

not  reprove  him.  He  did  not  think  there  was 
any  sin,  any  unfaithfulness  in  it,  for  he  did  not 
love  this  girl.  He  really  believed  that  he  did  not 
wrong  Anne  or  deprive  her  of  anything  to  which 
she  attached  any  importance. 

He  leaned  again  out  of  the  window.  He 
looked  up  to  the  sky.  He  would  see  it  to-morrow 
above  the  woods.  .  .  .  Then  he  reached  for  his 
hat.  A  rare  event  with  him,  he  longed  to  hear 
some  gipsy  music.  He  wanted  to  be  solitary, 
somewhere  where  the  fiddle  played  for  him  alone. 

He  hesitated  before  Anne's  door.  Should  he 
go  in?  Perhaps  she  was  still  asleep.  .  .  . 

His  steps  sounded  in  the  sunshine  room. 
Anne  jumped  up.  If  Thomas  were  to  open  the 
door  she  would  throw  herself  into  his  arms  .  .  . 
but  the  steps  passed  by. 

She  started  to  run  after  him,  then  stopped 
wearily  before  the  threshold.  She  would  abase 
herself  uselessly.  And  as  she  stood  there  she  re- 
membered something.  A  dream.  A  desolated 
strange  street.  One  solitary  person  at  the  fur- 
thest end.  Thomas  .  .  .  and  she  runs  after 
him,  but  the  distance  does  not  become  less.  The 
street  becomes  longer.  Thomas  seems  always 
further  and  further  away  and  she  cannot  reach 
him.  .  .  . 

She  thought  of  her  girlhood,  the  time  full  of 
promises.  Was  this  to  be  their  realization? 
Would  everything  remain  forever  like  this? 


220  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Would  she  and  Thomas  never  come  together 
again?  Live  with  each  other  $nd  look  at  each 
other  and  remain  strangers? 

She  shuddered  as  though  she  were  cold. 

Then  she  noticed  that  for  a  long  time  someone 
had  been  ringing  the  front  door  bell.  Who  could 
it  be?  The  old  friends  came  no  more  to  her. 
Thomas  was  taciturn  with  them  too.  They  may 
have  thought  it  conceit  and  all  stayed  away.  The 
relations  of  the  Illey  family  were  avoided  by 
Anne.  The  voice  of  Bertha  Bajmoczy  stood  be- 
tween her  and  the  descendants  of  the  old  land- 
lords. 

A  knock  at  the  door.  A  lamp  was  burning 
in  the  corridor  and  the  shape  of  a  man  appeared 
in  the  opening. 

It  was  Adam  Walter. 

"After  all  this  time.  .  .  ."  And  Anne  thought 
how  wonderful  it  was  that  the  old  friend  should 
come  back  just  this  day  when  she  felt  her  life 
so  poor  and  lonely.  Joy  came  to  her  heart  for 
a  moment.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  youth,  her 
girlhood,  had  returned  to  her,  with  everything 
that  distance  embellished. 

Adam  Walter  was  grave  and  serious  like  a 
man  who  has  painful  memories  to  bury  in  him- 
self. Yet  his  eyes  followed  Anne's  movements 
eagerly  while  she  reached  to  light  the  lamp.  He 
longed  and  feared  to  see  her  face  again. 

"She  has  suffered  since  I  have  seen  her," 
thought  Adam  Walter,  "and  it  has  beautified 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  221 

her."  Anne's  veiled  voice  and  her  look  broke 
open  in  him  a  wound  which  he  thought  had  long 
ago  healed.  He  too  remembered  his  youth,  when 
he  went  away  from  her  all  unsuspecting,  when 
he  worked,  when  he  dreamed.  Then  he  heard 
that  Anne  had  married  and  in  the  same  instant 
he  realized  that  he  loved  her.  He  had  loved 
her  always. 

She  seemed  strangely  tall  and  slender  to  him. 
The  flame  flared  up. 

"To  be  here  again  with  you  .  .  .  it's  too  good 
to  be  true." 

"You  ought  not  to  speak  like  that."  Anne 
smiled  her  old,  young  smile,  "or  do  you  still  say 
everything  that  passes  through  your  mind?  Do 
you  remember  the  Ferdinand  Miillers?  And 
the  new  sign,  the  white  head  of  ^Esculapius? 
How  we  laughed.  .  .  ." 

"In  those  times  everything  was  different," 
said  Walter  dryly. 

Anne  looked  at  him.  "He  too  has  become 
old.  How  hard  his  looks  are,"  and  the  smile 
that  had  rejuvenated  her  vanished  from  her  face. 

And  Walter's  voice  became  ironical. 

"And  I  thought  I  would  create  like  God,  just 
like  Him.  Then  my  opera  failed,  nobody 
wanted  my  sonatas.  Nobody  .  .  .  and  now  I 
am  humbly  thankful  to  become  assistant  pro- 
fessor in  the  National  Academy  of  music."  He 
laughed  lifelessly.  "But  perhaps  it  was  bound 
to  be  like  that.  When  a  man  in  his  youth  wants 


222  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

to  become  like  God,  he  becomes  at  least  an  as- 
sistant professor  in  the  end;  wjio  knows  that  if 
he  had  started  with  the  ambition  of  becoming  an 
assistant  professor  he  would  have  ended  by  be- 
coming nothing  at  all." 

Anne  looked  sadly  down.  "So  he  too  has 
failed  to  grasp  what  he  reached  for.  Does  no- 
body grasp  it?" 

"Once  upon  a  time  we  were  all  revolution- 
aries," said  Walter,  "for  is  not  youth  a  revolution 
in  itself?  We  are  all  borne  to  the  executioner: 
one  for  a  thought,  the  other  for  a  dream,  and 
...  all  of  us  for  love.  It  sounds  mad,  but  it 
is  so.  Man  must  die  many  deaths  in  himself 
to  be  able  to  live.  I  was  just  the  same  as  the 
others  and  those  that  are  young  to-day  are  as 
we  were  in  old  times.  In  its  unlimited  conceit 
youth  of  every  age  believes  that  it  has  discovered 
the  rising  of  the  sun  and  all  youth  shouts  vehe- 
mently that  its  sun  will  never  set.  That  is  as 
it  ought  to  be.  When  the  sun  comes  to  set,  the 
youth  of  another  age  believes  the  same  thing. 
Men  drop  out,  but  their  faith  remains  in  others, 
and  in  others  again,  and  that  is  the  thing  that 
matters." 

It  seemed  to  Anne,  that  Adam  Walter,  who 
once,  when  he  was  young,  had  guided  her 
thoughts  to  freedom,  now  taught  her  the  art  of 
compromise. 

Again  Walter  attempted  to  be  ironical,  but 
his  voice  failed  him. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  223 

"Man  is  full  of  colours,  brilliant  colours,  when 
he  starts.  They  all  wear  off.  Only  grey  re- 
mains. The  awful  grey  spreads  and  becomes 
greyer  and  greyer  till  it  covers  the  man  and  his 
life." 

"Oh,  Walter,  how  sad  all  this  is.  .  .  ." 

"To  me  it  is  sad  no  more.  I  have  got  over 
it.  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  please.  Even  for 
the  grey  people  there  are  still  some  lovely  things 
in  this  world.  The  grey  ones  see  other  people's 
colours.  They  alone  can  see  them  truly.  Since 
I  have  renounced  creating  myself,  I  enjoy  peace- 
fully, profoundly,  other  people's  creations.  Be- 
fore, I  was  aggressive  and  impatient,  now  I  love 
even  Schumann  and  Schubert,  and  all  those  who 
have  dreamed  and  who  woke  from  their  dreams." 

Anne  sat  with  half -closed  eyes,  bent  a  little, 
and  her  pale  hands  were  interlocked  over  her 
knee. 

"Have  I  grieved  you?"  asked  Walter  hesitat- 
ingly. 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"You  have  made  me  understand  my  own 
life.  .  .  ." 

"So  she  is  no  happier  than  I  am,"  thought 
Walter,  and  for  the  moment  he  felt  irrepressibly 
reconciled  to  his  fate.  Then  he  was  ashamed  of 
the  feeling.  He  had  no  right  to  it.  Anne  was 
not  to  blame  for  his  state  of  mind.  She  knew 
nothing  of  it. 

"Do  sing  something.  .  .  ." 


224  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

She  looked  at  him  with  large,  beaming  eyes. 
It  was  a  long  time  since  anybody  had  said  this 
to  her. 

They  began  to  talk  of  music.  And  this 
changed  them  into  their  old  selves ;  they  were  boy 
and  girl  again,  just  as  on  Sundays  in  the  old 
days. 

"Come  again  soon  and  bring  your  violin  with 
you,"  said  Anne  when  they  took  leave  of  each 
other.  Then  it  struck  her  that  neither  of  them 
had  mentioned  Thomas. 

Adam  Walter  and  Thomas  Illey  never  be- 
came friends.  They  met  with  courteous  rigidity. 
Adam  Walter  smiled  disparagingly  at  Illey's 
views,  while  Illey's  mocking  gaze  tried  to  call 
Anne's  attention  to  the  musician's  ill-cut  clothes 
and  shapeless  heavy  boots. 

It  mattered  little  to  Anne.  The  piano  stood 
mute  no  more  in  the  sunshine  room  and  a  bright 
ray  of  light  was  cast  on  her  life  by  the  revival  of 
music,  which  indifference  and  want  of  appreci- 
ation had  silenced  for  so  long.  Its  resurrection 
was  her  salvation.  Her  soul  ceased  to  be  stran- 
gled by  the  torture  of  enforced  silence ;  it  found 
relief  and  took  flight  on  the  wings  of  songs,  at- 
tended, through  many  quiet  evenings,  by  Wal- 
ter's soul  cast  into  the  music  of  his  violin. 

Christopher  looked  in  occasionally.  He 
patted  his  old  school-mate  on  the  back  and 
whistled  softly  to  the  music  while  he  ran  through 
Stock  Exchange  reports  in  the  papers.  Soon 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  225 

after  his  uneven  steps  passed  again  through  the 
corridor. 

He  could  not  find  peace  anywhere.  Calcu- 
lations swarmed  in  his  head.  They  appeared, 
but  before  he  was  able  to  grasp  them  they  scat- 
tered and  vanished.  He  had  no  idea  if  he  was 
winning  or  losing  and  he  dared  not  look  at  his 
accounts.  Money  became  dearer  and  dearer. 
Banks  restricted  their  credit.  Suspicious 
rumours  from  Vienna  reached  the  Stock  Ex- 
change of  Pest.  Quotations  fluctuated  and  de- 
clined slowly,  but  he  lacked  the  resolution  to 
wind  up  his  transactions.  He  was  still  waiting, 
still  buying.  He  became  intoxicated  with  the 
fascination  of  risks  and  blind  hopes.  His  nerves 
were  in  a  constant  state  of  tremulous  tension. 
The  lust  for  gain  became  the  torturing  passion 
of  his  soul. 

His  grandfather  had  been  the  money's  con- 
queror, his  father  its  guardian  and  he,  it  seemed, 
was  to  become  its  adventurer.  No  matter, 
chance  helped  adventurers. 

His  nights  became  very  long.  Restlessly, 
Christopher  turned  his  head  from  one  side  to  the 
other  on  his  hot  pillow.  He  rose  early.  He  was 
no  longer  contented  to  send  his  agents  on 
'Change.  He  wanted  to  see  the  confusion,  hear 
the  noise,  feel  the  universal  pulsation  of  money 
as  evinced  in  the  excitement  of  the  crowd. 

He  rushed  through  the  office.  Otto  Fiiger 
had  become  manager  with  full  powers.  He  ar- 


226  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

ranged  the  cover  for  speculations,  he  received 
and  paid  out  money  in  the  name  of  the  firm. 
Christopher  had  no  time  to  see  \o  anything.  In 
unbusinesslike  handwriting  he  put  his  name  to 
anything.  Then  he  rushed  away,  leaving  the 
doors  open  behind  him. 

It  was  a  lovely  May  morning  . 

At  the  Exchange  in  Dorothea  Street  brokers 
stood  on  the  stairs  and  transacted  their  business, 
leaning  against  the  balustrade.  Men  stood  in 
small  groups  in  the  acid,  stuffy  air  of  the  cloak- 
room. Subdued  talk  was  heard  here  and  there. 
An  old  fat  man  with  his  hat  perched  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  passed  wheat  between  his  fingers 
from  one  hand  to  the  other.  Near  the  window 
a  red-haired  broker  held  some  crushed  maize  in 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  He  lifted  it  up,  now  and 
then,  and  at  intervals  pushed  his  tongue  out  be- 
tween his  yellow  teeth.  Scattered  grain  crackled 
under  people's  feet. 

Doors  banged  in  the  big  hall  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change. The  lesser  fry  was  pushed  back.  There 
was  a  crush  round  the  bankers'  boxes.  Slowly 
the  masters  of  the  Exchange  arrived.  People 
saluted  them  respectfully,  as  if  they  were  paid 
for  it.  The  unimportant  ones  used  to  read  their 
faces,  the  gestures  of  their  hands.  The  great 
ones  looked  indifferent,  though  they  were  the  men 
who  held  the  secrets  which  mean  money.  Ner- 
vous heads  swayed  round  a  fat,  owl-like  face. 
Those  behind  pressed  eagerly  forward. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  227 

Near  Christopher  a  red-eyed,  seedy-looking 
man  shrank  to  the  wall.  A  worn  out,  long,  silk 
purse  was  in  his  hand.  He  began  to  suck  the 
ivory  ring  of  the  purse ;  people  collided  with  him 
and  the  ring  knocked  against  his  teeth;  but  he 
went  on  sucking  it. 

"I  sell.  .  .  ." 

"I  buy.  .  .  ."  cries  came  from  all  sides  like 
the  shrieks  of  hawks. 

Somebody's  hat  fell  on  the  floor  ...  it  was 
trampled  under  foot.  A  freckled  hand  waved 
a  bundle  of  papers. 

"I  sell  .  .  ."  it  came  denser  and  denser.  The 
brokers  of  the  big  banks  shouted  themselves 
hoarse.  The  noise  increased.  The  stocks  fell. 

"Now  .  .  .  now  is  the  time  to  buy,"  thought 
Christopher  in  deadly  excitement.  His  shrieks 
joined  the  general  pandemonium. 

"People's  Bank,  ninety-two.  .  .  ." 

"Eighty.  .  .  ."  bellowed  a  brute  voice. 

"Seventy-six.  .  .  ." 

Arms  rose.  Hands  moved  from  their  wrists, 
flabby,  like  rags. 

"Industrial  Bank.  .  .  ." 

"Credit  Institute.  .  .  ." 

"Forty-five  .  .  .  forty-two." 

Faces  were  aflame.  The  gamble  became  a 
wildfire,  roasting  people's  skins.  Rumours 
spread  through  the  hall.  Nobody  knew  whence 
they  came,  they  simply  were  suddenly  there  and 
then  scattered  all  over  the  place. 


228  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

A  deafening  uproar  followed.  People  blindly 
believed  anything.  Prices  "  fell.  Somebody 
bought.  Blind  confidence  returned. 

"I  buy.  .  .  ." 

Unconfirmed  news  of  disaster  came  again. 
The  whole  'Change  became  a  whirlpool,  as  if  it 
had  been  stirred  round.  Nobody  knew  what  was 
happening.  Telegram  forms  flew  over  the  place. 
Fists  beat  wildly  on  the  air.  .  .  .  Everything 
was  upside  down. 

A  man  with  sweaty  face  flew  like  an  arrow  into 
the  crowd. 

"There  is  a  Black  Saturday  in  Vienna!  News 
has  just  arrived.  There  is  a  slump  all  over 
Europe."  Quotations  fell  head  over  heel. 

A  big  broker  tried  to  stem  the  tide.  It  swept 
him  away.  It  was  all  over.  ...  In  a  few 
seconds  people,  families,  institutions,  were  ruined. 
Lost  were  the  easily-won  fortunes  of  the  day  be- 
fore, never  seen  by  those  who  owned  them.  Lost 
were  the  old  fortunes  amassed  by  the  hard  work 
of  several  generations.  ... 

Christopher  leaned  his  snow-white  face  against 
the  wall.  Near  him,  the  seedy-looking  man  con- 
tinued mechanically  to  suck  the  ring  of  his  purse. 
He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  him.  He  stared 
at  him  while  he  was  ruined. 

The  brokers  came  panting.  No,  it  was  now 
impossible  to  sell  anything.  What  stood  for 
money  an  hour  ago  had  become  a  valueless  scrap 
of  paper. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  229 

The  porter  of  the  Stock  Exchange  rang  the 
bell.  The  death-knell. 

Christopher  could  only  mumble.  Nobody 
listened  to  him,  his  own  agents  left  him  there. 
Only  the  weird  man  looked  at  him  with  funny, 
bloodshot  eyes. 

Then  strange  faces  passed  quite  near  to  his 
face.  A  sickening  smell  of  perspiration  moved 
with  them  in  the  air.  Christopher's  eyes  became 
rigid  and  glassy.  Faces  .  .  .  faces  of  a  strange 
race.  Some  smiled  pale  smiles.  These  had  won. 
Everything  would  be  theirs,  it  was  only  a  question 
of  time.  Theirs  the  gold,  the  town,  the  coiin- 
try. 

And  the  grandson  of  Ulwing  the  builder, 
ruined,  tottered  through  the  gates  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  among  the  new  men. 

Life  became  confused  and  dreary.  After 
Black  Saturday,  the  Stock  Exchange  differences 
were  enormous.  No  bright  Sunday  shone  for 
Christopher.  He  had  to  pay,  and,  as  he  had 
never  reckoned,  he  attacked  Anne's  fortune  too. 
This  was  a  secret  between  Otto  Fiiger  and  him- 
self. He  said  nothing  of  it  to  Thomas. 

He  clutched  like  a  drowning  man.  He 
wanted  to  turn  everything  into  money.  To  hide 
the  truth,  to  keep  up  appearances  as  long 
as  possible  .  .  .  fighting,  lying.  Sometimes 
Otto  Fiiger  whispered  into  his  ears  and  then 
he  shrivelled  up  and  looked  horrified  at  the 
door. 


230  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"No,  no,  tell  them  to-morrow.  ...  It  can- 
not be  done  to-day!" 

From  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour,  he  kept 
things  going  and  the  strings  of  his  nerves  tight- 
ened in  his  neck.  To  gain  time,  if  only  minutes 
.  .  .  even  a  minute  is  a  long  time  for  a  man 
clinging  to  his  life. 

Summer  passed  like  this  and  then,  in  autumn, 
came  the  terrible  wave  of  bankruptcy  affecting 
the  whole  building  trade.  The  firm  of  Miinster 
became  insolvent.  Many  of  the  new  businesses 
v/ent  bankrupt.  Christopher  alone  kept  himself 
still  going  and  one  afternoon  he  carried  his  last 
hope  to  Paternoster  Street. 

No  one  took  any  notice  of  him  in  the  office. 
One  inferior  clerk  to  whom  he  told  his  name 
stared  over  his  head.  He  had  to  wait  a  long 
time  before  he  entered  the  manager's  office. 

The  manager  was  reading  a  letter  at  his  writ- 
ing-table and  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  his 
presence.  Christopher  could  not  help  remem- 
bering how  different  everything  had  been  when 
he  signed  his  first  bill  in  this  same  office.  The 
smoky  low  room  had  disappeared  and  the  busi- 
ness occupied  the  whole  building.  It  had  be- 
come a  bank. 

His  eyes  were  arrested  by  the  fat,  owl-like 
head  of  the  all-powerful  manager.  He  recog- 
nised in  him  suddenly  the  little  owl-faced  clerk 
who  in  those  old  times  cringed  humbly  before 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  231 

him.  The  proportions  of  his  face  had  doubled 
since,  and  so  had  his  body;  there  was  scarcely 
room  enough  for  him  in  the  armchair. 

The  director  came  to  the  letter's  end.  He 
lowered  his  head  like  a  bull  preparing  to  charge 
and  his  dull  eyes  looked  suspiciously  over  his 
spectacles  at  Christopher. 

"I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mr.  Ulwing? 
Yes  ...  of  course,  of  course,  I  know  the  firm. 
A  connection  dating  from  our  youth.  .  .  .  Once 
I  happened  to  have  the  good  fortune  of  meeting 
a  certain  old  Mr.  Christopher  Ulwing.  Any  re- 
lation of  yours?  A  powerful  man,  a  distin- 
guished man." 

"My  grandfather.  .  .  ." 

The  manager  became  at  once  very  polite.  He 
offered  Christopher  a  seat. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you?" 

Christopher  was  startled  by  this  question, 
though  he  had  naturally  expected  it.  He  cast 
his  eyes  down,  pale,  suffering.  He  would  have 
liked  to  defer  the  answer.  Until  it  was  given 
there  was  still  one  last  hope.  After  that  none 
might  be  left. 

Owl-face  moved  the  side-pieces  of  his  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  which  made  an  impression  on 
his  fleshy  temples. 

"I  am  at  your  orders,"  he  said  a  little  impa- 
tiently, looking  at  the  clock  on  the  wall. 

Christopher  made  an  effort. 


232  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"I  want  a  loan." 

The  manager  at  once  became  cold  and 
haughty. 

"Everybody  wants  one  nowadays.  Black 
Saturday  has  ruined  many  people." 

"I  don't  deny  that  it  has  caused  some  tem- 
porary embarrassment  to  my  firm  too.  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  said  the  manager  drily. 

The  whole  face  of  Christopher  was  anxiously 
convulsed. 

"A  short  loan  would  help  me  consider- 
ably  " 

"What  security  do  you  offer?  The  name 
of  Ulwing?"  Owl-face  smiled,  "that  I  am  afraid 
is  no  longer  enough.  .  .  ." 

"My  books  are  at  your  disposal,  allow 
me  .  .  ."  stuttered  Christopher.  He  felt  clearly 
that  he  was  humiliating  himself  before  a 
stranger,  though  he  knew  but  dared  not  confess 
to  himself  that  it  was  useless.  He  also  knew 
that  it  was  hopeless  to  argue  and  still  he 
argued. 

The  manager  looked  coldly  into  his  eyes. 

"The  Bank  is  carefully  informed  of  every- 
thing." 

Christopher  drew  his  head  between  his 
shoulders  as  if  expecting  a  blow.  He  twisted 
his  mouth  helplessly  to  one  side. 

"You  came  too  late  to  me,  much  too  late," 
continued  Owl-face.  "Is  it  not  a  fact  that  the 
house  alone  remains  the  property  of  the  Ul- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  233 

wings?  It  is  true  it  could  not  be  sold  at  pres- 
ent. Times  are  bad,  but  if  I  remember  aright 
the  grounds  are  exceptionally  large,  well  situated 
in  the  middle  of  the  town,  and  could  bear  a 
heavy  mortgage." 

Christopher  hung  his  head  in  desperation. 
The  manager  looked  at  him  over  his  spectacles 
expectantly.  For  an  instant,  kind,  human  pity 
appeared  in  his  eyes,  then  he  sighed  and  dropped 
his  hand  with  a  heavy  movement  on  his  knee. 

"I  can  lend  you  money  on  the  house.  That 
is  the  only  way  I  can  do  it." 

With  a  motion  of  his  hand,  Christopher  waved 
the  suggestion  away.  He  was  in  the  mire,  but 
he  had  strength  enough  to  escape  drowning  in 
it.  He  struggled  no  more  with  himself.  He 
felt  he  could  never  touch  the  house.  At  least 
let  that  be  preserved  clear  for  Anne.  The  house, 
the  dear  old  house.  .  .  . 

The  banker  rose  when  he  had  shaken  hands 
with  Christopher  and  went  with  him  to  the  door. 

"I  was  a  great  admirer  of  Mr.  Ulwing  the 
builder.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  oblige  his  grand- 
son. Perhaps  another  time,"  he  added  in  a  mur- 
mur, as  if  he  did  not  believe  it  himself. 

Christopher  smiled  convulsively,  painfully. 
Even  when  he  reached  the  street  this  smile  re- 
mained on  his  face  and  tortured  his  features. 
He  caught  hold  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and 
pulled  it  downwards,  sideways. 

He  did  not  know  where  he  went.     He  ran 


234  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

into  people.  An  old  gentleman  shouted  at  him 
angrily: 

"Can't  you  look  out,  young  man?" 

Christopher  looked  at  him  wearily.  He 
thought  how  this  old  man  was  younger  than  he, 
because  he  would  live  longer  than  he. 

When  he  reached  home,  he  threw  himself  on 
his  bed.  Curiously,  he  fell  asleep  at  once.  The 
heavy  dreams  of  exhaustion  took  possession  of 
him.  Sweat  ran  from  his  brow. 

When  he  woke,  it  was  quite  dark  in  the  room. 
At  first  he  knew  not  where  he  was,  nor  what  had 
happened.  Then,  with  a  shock,  he  remembered. 
He  moaned  like  a  suffering  animal  that  cannot 
tell  its  pains.  .  .  .  He  could  stand  solitude  no 
more.  Already  he  was  on  the  threshold.  On 
the  staircase  he  looked  at  his  watch.  Eleven 
o'clock.  He  knocked  timidly  at  the  door  of  the 
sunshine  room. 

"Anne,  are  you  asleep?" 

"Yes,  a  long  time  ago,"  answered  his  sister  in- 
side. The  door  opened.  Anne  tried  to  look 
gay,  but  her  eyes  were  sad. 

"Do  you  remember,  Christopher,  how  often 
you  asked  that  question  in  the  old  times  from 
your  little  railed  bed?" 

"And  you  answered  then  as  you  did  now. 
Then  too  I  was  afraid." 

Anne  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes, 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Christopher  laughed  curiously. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  235 

"Can't  I  make  a  joke  when  I  am  merry? 
And  what  are  you  doing  so  late?"  He  looked 
at  the  table.  Under  the  shaded  lamp  lay  ac- 
count books  and  bills. 

"I  have  learnt  about  accounts,"  said  Anne 
wearily,  "so  many  bills  have  accumulated  lately. 
The  tradesmen  worry  me  and  I  receive  no  money 
from  the  office.  I  cannot  understand  why  Otto 
Fiiger  delays  things  like  this."  She  stopped 
suddenly,  thinking  of  something  else.  "Did 
you  hear?"  and  she  began  to  run  towards  the 
nursery. 

Christopher  dragged  his  steps  behind  her. 

On  the  chest  of  drawers  a  night-lamp  was 
burning.  In  the  deep  recess  of  the  earthen- 
ware stove  water  was  warming  in  a  jug.  Anne 
leaned  over  one  of  the  beds  and  her  voice  sounded 
softly  in  the  silence  of  the  room: 

"Here  I  am.  .  .  ." 

Christopher's  heart  was  touched  by  these  three 
short  words,  which  meant  so  much.  He  too  had, 
once  upon  a  time,  slept  in  the  very  same  little 
bed,  he  too  had  waked  with  a  start,  had  been 
afraid,  but  no  mother's  voice  came  to  say:  "Here 
I  am."  He  had  never  known  a  light  cool  hand 
caressing  for  caresses'  sake,  two  warm  womanly 
arms  embracing  chastely,  nor  the  clear  smile  that 
has  no  design.  He  did  not  know  her  who  under- 
stands all  and  forgives  all,  and  who  says  when 
one  is  miserable :  "Here  I  am!"  Yet  just  that 
might  have  been  enough  to  alter  his  life. 


236  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"They  are  lucky,"  muttered  Christopher  as  he 
went  back  to  the  sunshine  room.  Anne,  before 
shutting  the  door  behind  her,  put  a  piece  of 
paper  between  the  two  wings.  She  never  for- 
got that.  The  loose  old  doors  had  glass  panes 
and  rattled  if  a  carriage  passed  down  below  in 
the  street;  this  frightened  little  Ladislaus. 

"This  ought  to  be  set  right.  .  .  ." 

Christopher  sat  in  silence  in  the  corner  of  the 
sofa  with  the  many  flowers.  He  paid  no  atten- 
tion. Under  his  motionless  eyelids  he  looked 
wearily  all  round  the  room.  He  noticed  sud- 
denly that  Anne  said  nothing.  Why  did  she  not 
speak?  She  would  help  him  if  she  said  some- 
thing, anything,  words,  ordinary  matter-of-fact 
everyday  words,  which  had  a  sound,  which  lived 
and  caught  hold  of  his  mind,  which  held  him  back 
if  only  for  a  minute  at  the  brink  of  the  abyss 
which  threatened  him  and  filled  him  with  horror. 

"Anne,  tell  me  a  story." 

She  looked  up  from  the  little  drawer  into 
which  she  had  locked  her  bills. 

"Tell  you  a  story?  What  are  you  thinking 
about?  How  can  I  tell  a  story  who  am  living 
within  four  walls?"  she  smiled  and  put  her  hand 
on  her  brother's  shoulder. 

"Well,  little  Chris,  once  upon  a  time  there 
was  an  old  house:  in  that  ho'ise  lived  a  woman 
who  never  could  sleep  her  fill,  because  her  two 
sons  waked  her  up  early  every  morning.  ..." 

Christopher's  face  twitched  as  he  rose. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  237 

"You  are  right,  let  us  go  to  sleep.  .  .  ."  He 
bent  down  and  kissed  his  sister's  hand.  "Good 
night,  Anne,  and  ..."  He  wanted  to  say 
something  more,  but  turned  his  head  away  with 
an  effort  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  corridor  he  stopped  near  the  loose  stone 
slab  and  tried  it.  It  was  still  loose.  The  ticking 
of  the  marble  clock  accompanied  him  once  more 
down  the  stairs. 

In  his  deep,  vaulted  room  a  candle  was  burn- 
ing, but  the  small  flame  could  not  cope  with  the 
big  room  and  left  cavelike  dark  corners.  A  big 
white  spot  attracted  Christopher's  eyes.  While 
he  had  been  with  Anne,  the  servant  had  made  his 
bed  and  his  clothes  for  the  morrow  were  lying 
there  ready  on  a  chair.  He  could  not  bear  this 
sight.  To-morrow.  .  .  .  He  choked.  In  that 
moment  a  delicate  crackling  reached  his  ear. 
He  turned  towards  it. 

The  fire  was  burning  in  the  stove  and  shone 
through  the  old  tiles.  Christopher  went  up  to 
it,  leaned  his  hand  on  the  stove  and  looked 
through  the  ventilators.  Small  flames  flickered 
among  the  logs.  He  looked  at  them  for  some 
time  with  extraordinary  interest,  then  raised 
himself  with  a  sigh. 

Life  had  deprived  him  of  everything.  When- 
ever he  inspected  closely  things  he  believed  in, 
he  always  found  them  to  be  delusions,  just  like 
the  stove  fairies.  He  had  been  running  after 
delusions  too  when  he  had  fallen.  He  had 


238  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

broken  when  he  fell;  it  was  useless  to  try  to 
stand  up  again;  he  could  do  it  no  more.  Even 
if  he  could,  what  good  would  it  "be?  All  the  peo- 
ple he  had  come  in  contact  with  had  broken  a 
piece  off  his  soul,  taken  it  with  them  and  cast 
it  away.  Where  was  he  to  seek  the  scattered 
pieces?  .  .  .  What  was  left  to  him  was  too  little 
for  life.  A  little  honour,  very  little.  A  little 
pity  for  Anne  .  .  .  nothing  else. 

His  hand  slid  from  the  stove.  Why  warm  it 
now,  it  was  no  longer  worth  while.  .  .  . 

He  went  to  the  writing-table.  Then,  as  if 
disgusted,  he  pushed  the  papers  away  from 
himself.  He  turned  back  at  the  threshold.  He 
threw  a  packet  of  letters  into  the  fire.  He  put 
his  watch  and  his  empty  purse  on  the  table.  No, 
he  had  nothing  else  on  him. 

In  the  garden  the  autumnal  leaves  rustled 
gently,  as  if  somebody's  teeth  chattered  in  the 
dark.  Christopher  slunk  with  bent  back  out  of 
the  gate  .  .  .  only  the  two  pillar-men  looked 
after  him. 

"Just  like  a  thief."  Somehow,  he  could  not 
understand  why,  his  grandfather's  funeral  came 
to  his  mind.  The  mayor,  the  city  councillors, 
the  flags  of  the  guilds.  The  priests  sang  and  the 
bells  tolled.  .  .  .  He  leaned  back,  then  he  went 
on  with  his  unsteady,  heavy  steps. 

The  night  was  dense.  In  the  mist  the  city 
looked  like  a  reflection  in  grey,  murky  water. 
The  h>ht  of  the  gas  lamps  faded  away  into  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  239 

air,  the  walls  of  the  houses  faded,  the  people's 
faces  faded.  With  a  shudder  Christopher 
turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

He  reached  the  Danube.  He  sought  his  way 
between  the  barrels  and  bags  of  the  docks. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step,  put  his 
arms  around  his  shins  and  leaned  his  forehead 
on  his  knees.  He  only  wanted  to  rest  for  an  in- 
stant. Just  for  a  short  time. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Why  did  he  wait?  All 
that  was  worth  waiting  for  had  gone. 

In  the  damp  air,  the  Danube  seemed  to  rise. 
...  It  approached  him  with  a  soft  black  move- 
ment. He  shrank  back  instinctively,  as  if  to  es- 
cape, and  his  hands  clung  in  horror  to  the  stones. 

Suddenly  this  passed  away.  The  great  river 
became  beautiful  and  calm.  The  lamps  of  the 
shore  dipped  swaying  stairs  of  fire  into  the  deep. 
The  river  ceased  to  be  hostile  to  Christopher.  It 
whispered  to  him  and,  as  if  recognising  him,  it 
called  him,  as  it  had  called  the  Ulwings  of  old. 

The  tired  soul  of  Christopher  responded  to 
the  appeal  and  his  body  followed  his  soul. 

After  that  he  never  came  back  again. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THINGS  and  events  in  which  Christopher 
had  had  a  hand  passed  slowly,  painfully 
into  oblivion.  Hope  was  exhausted  and 
the  old  house  awaited  no  more  the  home- 
coming of  the  last  Ulwing. 

Anne  knew  everything.  .  .  .  The  huge  for- 
tune of  Ulwing  the  builder  was  shattered  before 
anybody  had  raised  its  gold  to  the  sun.  This 
fortune  had  never  shone  and  those  still  living 
only  realized  its  immensity  when  they  saw  its 
ruins. 

Thomas  choked  when  he  told  Anne  the  truth. 
He  was  horrified  by  the  words  he  had  to  pro- 
nounce, he  feared  he  would  break  his  wife's 
heart. 

Anne  listened  to  him  silently  with  bowed  head, 
only  her  face  became  deadly  pale  and  her  eyes 
turned  dim  like  the  eyes  of  one  dangerously  ill. 

"For  a  long  time  I  have  feared  this  would 
happen,"  she  whispered  gently,  and  straightened 
herself  up  with  a  great  effort  as  if  to  face  the 
misfortune.  She  seemed  suddenly  taller  than 
usual.  Her  expression  became  clear  and  brave 
and  the  fine  lines  of  her  chin  strong  and  deter- 
mined. 

"Don't  spare  me  anything,  Thomas.     I  want 

240 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  241 

to  know  all."  After  that  she  only  said  that 
Christopher's  creditors  were  to  be  paid  in  full; 
she  would  have  no  stain  on  the  name  of  Ulwing. 

During  the  period  that  followed,  Anne  bore 
her  ruin  with  the  same  dominating  will  power 
that  Ulwing  the  builder  had  shown  in  building 
up  his  fortune.  Thomas  Illey  discovered  in 
Anne  something  he  had  not  known  hitherto. 
An  incomprehensible  strength  exuded  from  her, 
the  tenacious  strength  of  the  woman,  which  can 
be  greater  among  ruins  than  when  it  is  called 
upon  to  build. 

Nobody  ever  heard  her  complain  of  the  loss 
of  her  fortune,  nor  did  anybody  ever  see  her 
weep.  Only  on  the  sides  of  her  forehead  a 
silvery  gleam  began  to  appear  in  the  warm, 
shaded  gold  of  her  hair. 

Thomas  Illey  was  now  forced  to  concern  him- 
self with  the  Ulwing  business.  He  asked  for 
leave  from  his  official  duties  and  in  front  of  the 
grated  ground-floor  window  of  the  builder's  for- 
mer office  he  worked  hard  with  his  lawyer  among 
the  muddled  books.  He  arranged  matters  with 
the  creditors,  and  the  firm  of  Ulwing,  known  by 
three  generations,  ceased  to  exist. 

The  small  tablet  was  removed  from  the  office 
door.  The  employes  were  paid  off.  Of  the  an- 
cient ones,  only  a  few  remained,  old  Gemming 
and  Mr.  Feuerlein.  The  eyes  of  the  clerk  were 
very  red  when  he  took  leave  of  Anne.  In  the 
corridor,  he  turned  back  several  times ;  he  stopped 


242  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

on  the  stairs;  with  knees  knocking  together  he 
went  round  the  garden  and  tcfok  a  white  pebble 
with  him  as  a  keepsake. 

When  they  had  gone,  Otto  Fiiger  alone  re- 
mained in  his  place  for  the  liquidation.  Thomas 
rang  for  him.  He  asked  for  explanations. 
Vague  excuses  were  the  answer. 

"He  knows  nothing  about  it,"  thought  Otto 
Fiiger  and  waited  impatiently  for  the  hour  when 
he  would  be  free. 

Illey  appeared  always  cool.  He  did  not 
grope,  and  never  lost  his  head.  He  listened 
quietly  to  the  end  and  stuck  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  while  Fiiger  took  leave  with  deep  obei- 
sances. 

But  he  went  unusually  slowly  up  the  stairs. 
When  he  turned  from  the  sordid  details  of  the 
dissipation  of  this  huge  fortune,  he  was  driven 
to  frenzy  by  the  thought  that  an  infinitely  small 
portion  of  it  would  have  saved  him  the  torture 
of  his  invincible  longing  for  the  lands  of  I  lie 
which  had  tarnished  the  years  of  his  youth.  He 
was  wrung  by  a  bitterness  that  robbed  him  of 
speech  when  he  came  to  face  Anne. 

She  looked  at  him. 

"Are  you  tired,  Thomas?" 

Illey  shook  his  head  and  pressed  his  open  hand 
for  an  instant  to  his  chest,  as  if  something 
weighed  on  him  in  the  left  breast-pocket  of  his 
coat. 

Anne   struggled   silently  with   her  thoughts. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  243 

She  was  convinced  that  if  Thomas  had  made  up 
his  mind  years  ago  to  do  the  work  he  had  done 
now,  Christopher  might  be  alive,  the  firm  might 
be  alive,  and  the  fortune  too. 

They  accused  each  other  without  exchanging 
a  word.  Only  when  a  long  time  had  passed  did 
they  notice,  both  of  them,  that  their  silence  had 
become  cold  and  horrible  and  that  they  could  not 
alter  it. 

After  a  few  days  the  lawyer  stopped  his  visits. 
Thomas  locked  up  the  business  books  and  had 
the  shutters  fixed  in  the  old  study  of  Ulwing  the 
builder.  He  seemed  quite  calm  now,  only  his 
face  was  thinner  than  usual.  In  the  outer  office 
he  stopped  in  front  of  Otto  Fiiger  and  looked 
motionlessly  down  on  him. 

The  former  book-keeper  became  embarrassed. 

"Sad  work,"  he  stuttered,  while  he  took  off  his 
spectacles  and  wiped  them  energetically,  holding 
them  near  to  his  eyes. 

"Scoundrel,"  said  Thomas  Illey  with  imper- 
turbable calm,  "you  did  your  stealing  cleverly." 

Otto  Fiiger  stared  at  him  confounded.  He 
was  not  prepared  for  this.  His  lips  parted,  he 
wanted  to  protest. 

Illey  looked  down  on  him  from  head  to  foot. 
He  exclaimed: 

"Clear  out!"  and,  as  Fiiger  did  not  move,  he 
gripped  him  by  the  shoulders  and  without  ap- 
parent effort,  thrust  him  out  of  the  door.  The 
spectacles  had  fallen  to  the  ground;  as  if  he 


244  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

would  not  touch  them  with  his  hand  for  fear  of 

pollution,  Thomas  pushed  them  with  the  tip  of 

his  shoe  to  the  threshold. 

Otto  Fiiger  spoke  excitedly  under  the  porch: 
"Defamation     of     character.  .  .  .  We    shall 

meet  again.     Then  we  shall  see.     I'll  have  the 

law  on  you.  .  .  ." 

He  never  did.     It  was  not  in  his  interest  to 

make  a  scandal.     He  was  a  rich  man  now. 

In  the  old  house  life  became  quiet  and  eco- 
nomical. The  offices  on  the  ground  floor  were 
let  to  strangers.  The  lodgings  of  Mrs.  Henri- 
etta and  the  stables  were  transformed  into  a 
warehouse  by  a  wine-merchant.  He  built  up 
the  windows  and  doors  towards  the  back  garden 
and  made  an  entrance  from  the  street.  Horses 
and  carriages  passed  to  strangers.  Of  the  serv- 
ants only  Florian  and  Netti  remained,  and  old 
Mamsell  Tini,  who  wiped  clandestine  tears  from 
her  long,  rigid  face. 

Of  late  years  the  whole  neighbourhood  of  the 
house  had  changed.  In  place  of  the  old  timber 
yard  strange  apartment  houses  had  risen  and 
their  grimy  walls  looked  hideously  and  imperti- 
nently into  the  garden.  Between  the  Ulwing 
house  and  the  Danube  a  narrow  street  with  four- 
storey  buildings.  From  her  window  Anne  could 
no  longer  see  the  lovely,  wide  river,  the  Castle 
hill,  the  spires,  the  Jesuits'  Stairs  up  which  she 
once  used  to  climb  to  Uncle  Sebastian.  Morn- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  245 

ing  came  later  to  the  rooms  than  formerly.  The 
houses  opposite  sent  their  shadows  into  the  win- 
dows. The  sun  shone  into  them  no  more  and 
night  fell  earlier  than  of  old. 

Anne  thought  often  that  if  her  grandfather 
were  to  come  back  he  would  feel  strange  in  his 
old  town  and  would  not  find  his  way  home. 

The  town  grew  rapidly  and  the  years  flew  still 
faster.  Everything  became  faster  than  in  the 
old  times.  Anne  remembered  how,  when  she 
was  a  child,  time  passed  smoothly,  calmly,  while 
now  it  rushed  by  as  if  it  went  downhill. 

Thomas  had  a  high  and  influential  post  in 
his  office.  For  a  long  time  the  two  boys  had 
been  going  to  school,  and  Anne,  hearing  their 
lessons,  learned  more  than  she  had  known  before. 

In  the  garden  the  flowers  began  to  bloom ;  the 
holidays  came;  then  it  was  again  winter. 

Christmas  eve. 

Not  the  former  Christmas  of  childhood  when 
all  was  wonder,  when  the  Christmas  tree  with 
shining  candles  was  brought  from  woods  beyond 
the  earth  by  angels  above  the  snow-covered 
house  tops.  This  was  a  Christmas  suitable  for 
grown-up  people,  a  sober  Christmas. 

The  boys  smiled  at  the  old  tales.  They  them- 
selves had  decorated  the  tree  the  evening  before. 
After  supper  they  both  felt  sleepy  and  gathered 
their  presents  quietly  together  in  the  sunshine 
room. 

George  had  received  a  watch  and  books  and 


246  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

a  real  gun  from  his  father.  His  mother  had 
given  building  bricks  to  little  Ladislaus. 

"Hurry  up.     It  is  late,"  said  Thomas. 

Sleep  suddenly  forsook  the  boys'  eyes.  "Next 
Christmas  I  shall  ask  for  things  to  build  a  bridge 
with,"  decided  the  smaller  boy  with  true  childlike 
insatiability. 

George  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  I  were  you  I  should  ask  for  horses  like 
those  we  saw  in  the  shop  window  the  other  day. 
When  I  was  little  they  did  not  make  such  lovely 
toys  as  they  do  now." 

"You  are  for  ever  thinking  of  horses,"  re- 
torted the  little  son.  "I  want  to  build  bridges. 
When  I  am  grown  up  I  shall  build  a  bridge 
over  the  Danube  and  get  a  lot  of  toll  from  every- 
body." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  the  elder,  "as  if  one 
could  not  get  rich  with  horses!" 

Thomas  smiled  and  looked  at  his  wife. 

"They  have  got  your  grandfather's  fine  blood 
in  them." 

Anne  looked  after  the  boys.  The  younger 
was  fair  and  blue-eyed  like  the  Ulwings.  His 
bony  little  fist  resembled  his  great-grandfather's 
powerful  hand  and  when  he  got  into  a  temper  his 
jaw  went  to  one  side  and  his  eyes  became  cold. 

"Yes,  but  their  appearance  and  movements 
are  yours,  the  shape  of  their  heads  too,"  said  she, 
and,  a  thing  she  had  not  done  for  a  long  time, 
she  stroked  Thomas's  head  where  it  curved  in 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  247 

such  a  noble,  fine  line  into  his  neck.  She  did  it 
out  of  gratitude,  because  she  loved  his  blood  in 
her  sons.  Then  her  hand  slid  into  her  husband'*? 
shoulder  and  an  inordinate  longing  came  over 
her  to  lean  her  forehead  on  it.  But  what  would 
Thomas  think  of  it?  After  all  these  years  * 
Perhaps  he  would  be  astonished  and  misconstrue 
it?  She  blushed  faintly  and  recovered  herself. 
She  remembered  that  whenever  she  was  seeking 
pure  tenderness,  Thomas  gave  her  something 
else.  Men  never  understand  women  when  they 
ask  them  for  something  for  their  soul. 

Anne  stood  a  moment  longer  near  her  hus- 
band and  then,  as  if  overflowing  with  feelings 
she  could  not  express,  she  moved  irresistibly 
towards  the  piano. 

"You  want  to  sing?"  asked  Thomas,  out  of 
humour  now.  "Has  not  Adam  Walter  prom- 
ised to  come?  You  will  be  able  to  have  plenty 
of  music  then." 

Anne  stopped  and  looked  at  him  over  her 
shoulder.  The  corners  of  her  eyes  and  lips  rose 
slowly,  sadly. 

"Come  and  sit  by  me,"  said  Thomas,  "let  us 
talk." 

"Talk.  .  .  ."  The  word  repeated  itself  on 
Anne's  lips  like  a  lifeless  echo.  Was  not  this 
word  only  a  name,  the  name  of  something  that 
never  came  when  called  for? 

They  looked  at  each  other  enquiringly  for  a 
little,  then  there  was  resigned  silence.  There 


248  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

had  been  so  many  short  words  and  long  silences 
between  them,  during  which  'they  were  going 
further  and  further  apart,  retreating  into  their 
own  souls  instead  of  coming  nearer  to  each  other, 
that  they  had  to  make  a  fresh  start  if  they  wanted 
to  talk  to  each  other.  A  start  from  a  painfully 
long  distance  and  .  .  .  this  was  Christmas  eve. 

"Do  you  hear?" 

Anne  shuddered  and  looked  shiveringly 
towards  the  dark  rooms. 

A  delicate  sound  repeated  itself  obstinately, 
like  the  sound  of  a  tiny  drill  working  in  the  depth 
of  things.  It  started  over  and  over  again.  For 
an  instant  it  came  from  under  the  whitewash  of 
the  ceiling,  then  up  from  the  floor,  from  the  win- 
dows, from  the  beams,  from  everywhere. 

"Do  you  hear?"  asked  Thomas  and  his  hands 
stopped  in  the  air  in  the  middle  of  the  movement. 

"I  have  heard  it  for  a  long  time,"  Anne's  lips 
trembled  while  she  tried  to  smile.  They  both 
became  silent  again  and  the  weevil  continued  its 
work  in  the  old  house. 

Thomas  started  when  the  steps  of  Adam 
Walter  resounded  from  the  corridor.  He  went 
to  meet  him  and  took  the  violin  case  out  of  his 
hand. 

"Welcome,  dear  troubadour,"  then,  as  if  he 
had  himself  noticed  his  careless  irony,  he  added: 
"Do  sit  down,  my  dear  professor,"  and  offered 
cigars  to  his  guest. 

"But  of  course,   you   want  to  make   music. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  249 

My  wife  has  already  started,  an  hour  ago,  to 
air  the  piano."  He  laughed  quietly,  looking 
mockingly  at  the  end  of  Walter's  necktie  which 
pointed  rigidly  into  the  air  beside  his  white  collar. 

"What  is  the  news  in  town?" 

"I  only  see  musicians,"  said  Walter  with  good- 
natured  condescension,  "and  they  are  fighting  at 
present  over  the  score  of  the  artist  Richard 
Wagner's  Parsifal.  They  are  coming  to  blows." 

"Do  tell  me,  professor,  do  you  really  take 
those  things  seriously?  Do  you  consider  Art 
something  quite  serious?" 

Adam  Walter  wrinkled  his  low  brow.  He 
smiled  with  mocking  forbearance. 

Anne  looked  at  him  as  if  making  a  request 
that  he  should  not  continue  the  subject.  It  was 
always  painful  to  her  when  her  husband  talked 
of  these  things.  She  found  him  on  these  oc- 
casions hopelessly  inconsequent,  obstinately  per- 
verse. She  did  not  like  to  see  him  like  that. 

"I  know  you  are  angry  if  I  say  so,"  Thomas 
continued  lightheartedly,  "but  my  Hungarian 
breed  can  see  nothing  in  Art  but  an  explanatory 
imitation  of  Nature.  We  have  no  need  of  art- 
ists to  stand  between  us  and  living  nature. 
Any  shepherd  or  cowherd  can  see  the  sunset  of 
the  great  plain  without  the  need  of  having  its 
beauty  worked  into  verses." 

Walter  turned  away  as  if  he  tried  to  escape 
Anne's  irresistible  imploring  look.  He  wanted 
to  answer,  for  he  felt  he  ought  to  answer. 


250  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"I  understand  music  only.  I  can  speak  of 
that  alone.  That  is  not  an  explanatory  imita- 
tion of  nature,  it  is  man's  only  artistic  achieve- 
ment which  lives  in  him,  and  comes  out  of  his 
very  own  self." 

"I  think  so  too,'*  said  Anne  gently.  "Every 
art  represents  what  exists,  music  alone  creates 
what  has  never  existed." 

"How  they  agree,"  thought  Thomas,  vexed. 
Then,  rather  disdainfully: 

"Do  not  the  musicians  learn  from  the  reeds, 
the  thunder,  the  wind,  the  birds  ?" 

"Nature  only  knows  harmony  and  discord," 
answered  Adam  Walter,  "melody  has  been  cre- 
ated by  man.  Nature  knows  no  melody." 

"Don't  say  so,  professor;  have  you  never 
walked  in  the  woods?  Have  you  never  slept  on 
the  moss  near  a  brook?" 

Adam  Walter  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  afraid  we  don't  understand  each  other." 

"It  seems  impossible,"  said  Illey.  "You  are 
one  of  those  who  like  the  painted  landscape  more 
than  the  real,  live  country.  I  don't  want  to  smell 
the  violet  in  the  scent  bottle,  but  at  the  edge  of 
the  woods." 

Walter  looked  suddenly  at  Anne  and  then,  as 
if  comparing  her  with  Thomas. 

"Mr.  Illey,  you  seem  to  me  like  the  music  of 
the  Tsigans." 

"Tsigan  music,"  repeated  Anne  thoughtfully, 
"and  I,  what  am  I?" 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  251 

"You  are  a  song  by  Schubert,"  answered  the 
musician. 

"The  two  don't  fit  well  together.  ...  Do 
light  a  cigar,  professor.  But,  of  course,  you 
want  to  make  music." 

But  that  day  Adam  Walter  did  not  draw  his 
violin  from  its  case.  A  small  nosegay  was  in  it. 
It  was  meant  for  Anne,  but  it  remained  there  too. 
He  took  it  away  with  him,  out  into  the  snow, 
back  into  the  white  Christmas  night. 

When  he  came  again  he  brought  a  larger 
bunch  of  flowers.  It  was  a  poor,  ungainly  bunch 
wrapped  up  in  a  newspaper.  He  put  it  awk- 
wardly on  the  piano  near  Anne,  and  became 
more  and  more  embarrassed. 

"Please  don't  thank  me,  it  is  not  worth  it.  I 
thought  of  it  quite  by  chance." 

Something  flashed  into  Anne's  face  which  re- 
sembled pain.  She  did  not  hear  Walter's  voice 
any  more,  she  knew  no  more  that  he  had  brought 
her  flowers ;  all  she  remembered  was  that  Thomas 
never,  never  gave  her  flowers. 

"Why?  .  .  ."  and  her  hands  raised  doubtful, 
dreamy  chords  from  the  piano.  Her  tender, 
meek  face  became  unconsciously  tragical.  She 
began  to  sing.  ...  A  deep  question  sang 
through  her  voice.  The  whole  life  of  a  woman 
sobbed  in  it,  complained,  implored.  It  rent  the 
heart,  it  clamoured  for  the  unattainable,  the 
Dromises  of  past  youth,  the  dream,  the  realiza- 
tion. 


252  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Adam  Walter  became  obsessed  by  the  rapt 
womanly  voice.  He  went  to* the  door,  shut  it 
carelessly,  then  leaned  immobile  against  the  wall. 
.  .  .  He  stood  there  spellbound,  even  after  the 
last  sound  had  died  away.  He  was  not  in  time 
to  harden  his  features  into  calmness,  and  Anne 
understood  his  expression,  because  she  was  suf- 
fering herself  at  the  time.  She  received  with  a 
grateful  smile  the  tenderness  which  came  to 
her.  .  .  .  They  remained  like  that  for  an  in- 
stant. Anne  was  the  first  to  awake.  And  as  if 
she  wanted  to  wake  him,  she  looked  towards  the 
door. 

"I  closed  it,"  said  Walter  humbly,  "in  order 
that  your  voice  should  be  nobody's  but 
mine.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  left  and  she  gazed  for  a  long  time 
into  the  growing  darkness.  Her  tenderness, 
which  she  had  thought  long  extinct,  was  now 
ablaze. 

Thomas  came  in.  Anne  remembered  that  her 
husband  was  going  to  shoot  and  knew  he  came 
to  take  leave. 

"Has  the  troubadour  gone?"  Illey  looked 
round  the  room.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  flowers 
on  the  piano.  "Now  he  has  started  to  bring  you 
flowers?" 

Anne  looked  at  him. 

"Do  you  know,  Thomas,  it  has  struck  me  that 
you  never  give  me  any  flowers." 

"You  don't  think   I   am  going  to  give  you 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  253 

flowers  grown  on  somebody  else's  land?"  Illey 
laughed  harshly  and  left  the  room  without  a  kiss, 
without  a  word  of  farewell. 

They  had  never  yet  parted  like  this.  Anne 
looked  after  him  amazed. 

"Have  a  good  time!"  she  shouted  and  did  not 
recognize  her  own  voice.  It  could  be  cold  and 
indifferent. 

When  Thomas  descended  the  stairs,  the  sound 
of  Anne's  piano  reached  him.  A  sad  song 
echoed  through  the  house.  .  .  .  He  slammed  the 
street  door  furiously,  as  if  he  sought  to  slay  the 
music.  He  looked  up  from  the  cab.  He  sud- 
denly remembered  that  Anne  once  used  to  look 
after  him  from  the  window.  Once  ...  a  long 
time  ago.  .  .  . 

"She  is  probably  pleased  now  when  I  go  and 
she  can  live  for  her  music.  That  is  what  draws 
her  and  Adam  Walter  together."  He  re- 
jected roundly  the  image  of  Walter.  He  did 
not  want  to  think  of  him  and  Anne  at  the  same 
time,  yet  the  two  images  would  get  mixed 
up  in  his  brain  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
robbed. 

The  sound  of  the  cab  had  passed.  In  the  twi- 
light of  the  sunshine  room  the  music  had  broken 
off.  Anne  began  to  nurse  the  burning  bitter- 
ness with  which  she  thought  of  her  husband. 
Could  he  not  see  that  she  suffered,  that  her 
smiles,  her  calm,  her  indifference  were  all  his? 
Did  he  not  know  her  face  was  all  a  mummery? 


254  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

A  mask  .  .  .  fearfully  she  raised  her  hand  to 
her  face  as  though  she  would,  snatch  something 
from  it.  ... 

At  that  moment  a  dawning  light  glimmered 
in  the  depths  of  her  mind,  mounting  up  through 
innumerable  memories.  An  old,  once  meaning- 
less tale  worked  its  way  out  slowly  from  oblivion. 
First  she  only  saw  the  setting:  the  small  clock- 
maker's  shop,  her  grandfather  in  front  of  a  large, 
semi-circular  window,  the  old  hand  of  Uncle  Se- 
bastian, the  violet-coloured  tail  coat,  the  buckled 
shoes.  She  heard  his  voice  again.  Broken,  un- 
connected words  came  to  her  mind,  reached 
her  heart  .  .  .  and  then,  suddenly,  there  was 
light. 

"No,  people  don't  know  what  their  neighbour's 
real  face  is  like.  .  .  .  Everybody  wears  a  mask, 
nobody  has  the  courage  to  take  it  off,  nobody 
dares  to  be  the  first  because  he  cannot  know 
whether  the  others  will  follow  his  example,  or 
stone  him." 

Anne's  thoughts  repeated  in  despair  the  words 
of  the  old  story:  "Everybody  wears  a  mask, 
everybody.  .  .  ."  And  perhaps  the  proud  alone 
were  the  charitable,  for  they  wore  the  mask  of 
silence. 

"Thomas,"  she  uttered  his  name  aloud,  as  of 
old,  when  their  love  began.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  found  a  torch  which,  on  the  dark 
road,  lit  up  her  husband's  real  face.  She  began 
to  expect  him,  though  she  knew  he  could  not 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  255 

come  back  so  soon.  She  waited  for  him  through 
many  long  hours.  Next  day  too  she  waited. 

Evening  came.  Adam  Walter  arrived  and 
again  brought  some  flowers  in  his  violin-case. 

Anne  became  absent-minded  and  restless. 
The  flowers  only  brought  Thomas  to  her  mind. 
Adam  Walter's  voice  seemed  strange  to  her  and 
his  ardent  glances  irritated  her.  To-day  not 
even  music  could  bring  them  together. 

While  reading  the  music,  Anne  listened  con- 
tinually for  sounds  below.  A  cab  stopped  at 
the  door.  Steps  in  the  corridor.  She  rose  in- 
voluntarily and  stretched  her  arms  out  as  if  she 
wanted  to  stop  someone  who  passed  by.  .  .  . 
The  noise  ceased  outside  and  her  arms  felt  wean7. 

Adam  Walter  watched  her  attentively  and  at 
the  same  time  peered  relentlessly  into  his  own 
mind.  He  too  felt  now  what  so  many  others 
had  suffered;  he  thought  with  physical  pain  of 
the  other  who  was  expected  and  passed  by.  .  .  . 
An  expression  of  despair  passed  over  his  face. 
Then,  as  if  sneering  at  himself,  he  raised  his  low 
brows  and  put  his  violin  aside. 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"I  can't  to-day."  Walter's  voice  attempted 
to  be  harsh  and  repellent,  but  his  eyes  were  hope- 
lessly sad. 

Anne  did  not  detain  him  when  he  started  to 
go.  She  felt  relieved;  now  there  was  no  more 
need  to  control  her  expression,  her  movements. 
She  ran  towards  her  husband's  room. 


256  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Thomas  stood  with  his  back  to  the  door  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"So  you  no  longer  even  come  to  see  me?"  she 
asked,  and  there  was  warmth  in  her  voice. 

"I  knew  you  had  company.  I  wanted  to  be 
alone." 

Anne  stepped  back  but  she  did  not  leave  the 
room  as  she  would  have  done  at  any  other  time. 
Thomas  started  walking  up  and  down.  Several 
times  he  touched  his  left  breast  pocket  arid 
pressed  his  open  hand  against  his  chest.  He 
stopped  suddenly  before  Anne. 

"I  thank  you  for  staying,"  he  said  excitedly. 
"I  must  speak  to  you." 

Anne  looked  at  him  frightened.  "Has  any- 
thing happened  to  you?" 

"No,  nothing.     Listen.  .  .  .  Ille  is  for  sale." 

Thomas  sat  down  on  the  window  sill  as  if  he 
were  tired.  He  related  how  he  was  shooting 
over  the  swampy  wood.  One  of  the  beaters  told 
him  that  the  property  of  Ille  was  again  up  for 
auction.  Those  to  whom  it  belonged  were  ruined 
and  had  left  the  place.  He  could  not  resist  and 
he  walked  all  over  the  property,  a  thing  he  had 
never  done  before.  An  old  farm  hand  recog- 
nized him.  He  called  him  young  master  as  in 
old  times,  though  his  hair  was  turning  grey. 
The  bailiff  recognized  him  too.  And  he  saw  the 
big  garden,  the  roof  of  the  house,  the  free  Dan- 
ube, the  barn,  the  tree  with  the  swing,  whose 
bark  still  showed  the  marks  of  the  ropes. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  257 

"You  understand,  Anne,  all  this  is  for  sale, 
cheap,  it  could  be  ours.  And  there  my  life 
would  have  a  purpose.  You  know,  for  the  sake 
of  the  boys.  ...  A  family  survives  only  if  it  is 
rooted  in  the  soil.  It  is  hopeless  for  a  tree  to 
cast  its  seeds  on  the  pavements  of  cities ;  lasting 
life  is  impossible  there.  The  families  of  city 
folk  are  like  their  houses  and  last  but  three  gen- 
erations. Country  people  are  like  the  earth. 
The  earth  outlives  a  house.  ...  If  only  I  could 
go  home,  everything  would  be  different." 

Astonishment  disappeared  from  Anne's  face 
and  an  indescribable  terror  appeared  in  its  stead. 

"And  the  house!  We  shall  have  to  leave 
here!" 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  said  Thomas  icily.  "I 
do  not  want  you  to  leave  the  house  for  my  sake. 
I  never  asked  you  for  a  sacrifice.  Nor  will  I 
now.  But  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer." 

Every  word  wounded  Anne. 

"Why  do  you  hurt  me  like  this?" 

"So  you  would  come  with  me?"  He  looked 
at  her  incredulously,  inquiringly.  "Is  it  possi- 
ble? You  would  come  with  me,  to  me,  now 
when  I  have  grown  old  and  your  love  for  me  has 
passed  away?" 

Anne  smiled  sadly. 

"Don't  you  think,  Thomas,  that  the  memories 
of  the  road  we  have  trodden  together  are  as 
strong  a  tie  as  love?" 

He  again  drew  his  hand  over  his  left  breast 


258  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

pocket  and  then  let  it  slip  quickly  to  his  waist  as 
if  it  had  been  done  accidentally. 

This  movement  caused  Anne  some  anxiety. 
She  remembered  that  it  had  become  frequent 
lately.  She  thought  no  more  of  her  troubles. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?  What  has 
happened?"  She  turned  back  the  frilly  silk 
shade  of  the  lamp  with  a  rapid  movement. 

They  looked  at  each  other  as  if  they  had  not 
met  for  a  very  long  time.  .  .  .  When  did  their 
ways  part?  When,  for  what  word,  for  what 
silence  ?  Neither  of  them  remembered.  It  must 
have  been  long  ago  and  since  then  they  had 
walked  through  life  side  by  side,  without  each 
other. 

Anne  leaned  over  Thomas.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  they  had  met  at  last  on  the  dark  road  and 
that  she  saw,  through  Uncle  Sebastian's  story, 
into  the  face  she  had  never  understood. 

"You  have  suffered  too,  Thomas.  .  .  ."  And 
as  if  he  were  her  child  she  took  his  head  tenderly 
between  her  hands.  She  pressed  it  to  her  bosom 
and  gently  stroked  his  grey-sprinkled  hair,  his 
wrinkles.  She  wanted  to  ask  forgiveness  of 
Thomas  for  the  marks  left  by  their  sad  misunder- 
standings. Every  touch  of  her  hand  demolished 
one  of  the  barriers  that  had  stood  between  them 
and  had  obstructed  their  vision. 

"I  have  not  been  kind  to  you,"  he  said  sadly, 
"I  passed  from  your  side  because  I  thought  of 
nothing  but  of  my  craving  for  my  land." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  259 

"And  I  thought  something  quite  different," 
answered  Anne,  in  a  whisper.  "You  said  noth- 
ing and  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  can  question. 
We  both  kept  silent  and  that  was  our  misfor- 
tune. I  see  now  that  silence  can  only  cover 
things,  but  cannot  efface  them.  Dear  God,  why 
did  you  not  tell  me  your  heart's  desire?  Why 
did  you  not  speak  while  we  were  still  rich?" 

Thomas  took  his  wife's  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  not  understand. 
You  understand  me  now — and  it  is  not  too  late." 

"But  how  could  we  buy  Ille?"  she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"Do  you  remember  that  swampy  wood? 
Once  nobody  wanted  it,  now  I  am  offered  a  good 
price  for  it.  That  would  go  some  way  and  I 
might  take  the  present  mortgage  over." 

Anne's  eyes  opened  wide  with  fear.  She 
thought  of  Christopher  who  had  been  swallowed 
up  by  financial  obligations. 

"I  shall  work,"  said  Thomas  and  his  voice  be- 
came quite  youthful,  "and  pay  off  the  debts." 

"Debts,"  repeated  Anne  mechanically  and  the 
practical  blood  of  Ulwing  the  builder  rose  in  her. 

"No,  Thomas,  we  don't  build  on  debts!"  She 
said  this  with  such  force  as  she  had  never  before 
put  into  her  speech  with  her  husband. 

Thomas  stared  at  her  darkly  for  an  instant. 
Then  his  figure  bent  up  in  a  curious  way  and 
while  he  turned  aside  he  made  a  gesture  as  if  cast- 
ing something  away. 


260  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

This  gesture  went  to  Anne's  heart.  In  her 
despair,  she  must  make  another  effort,  fight  a 
last  fight  at  the  cost  of  any  sacrifice.  And  while 
her  bewildered  mind  was  seeking  for  a  solution, 
her  eye  followed  her  husband's  glance  instinc- 
tively, through  the  window,  to  the  garden  where, 
under  the  evening  sky  the  steep  roof  descended 
near  the  gargoyle. 

Both  looked  at  it  silently.  The  two  wills  were 
fighting  no  more  against  each  other  and  Anne 
felt  with  relief  that  they  thought  in  unison.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  convulsively,  as  if 
pressing  a  mask  on  it,  a  mask  heavier  than  the 
old  one,  one  she  would  have  to  bear  now,  for  ever, 
for  the  rest  of  her  life.  Then  she  looked  up. 

"We  must  sell  the  house." 

In  that  moment,  within  the  ancient  walls,  a 
cord,  strained  for  a  long  time,  suddenly  snapped 
in  great,  invisible  pain. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

STRANGE     steps    walked    through    the 
house,   indifferent,   careless   steps.     They 
passed  along  the   corridor  and  went  up 
even  to  the  attics.     Down  in  the  court- 
yard bleak  business  voices  bargained  and  depre- 
ciated everything.     They  said  that  the  ground 
alone  had  any  value  that  could  be  discussed.     As 
for  the  building,  it  did  not  count — a  useless  old 
chattel,  no  longer  conforming  to  modern  require- 
ments. 

Anne  looked  round  as  if  fearing  that  the  house 
might  hear  this.  She  felt  tempted  to  shout  to 
the  agents  to  clear  out  of  the  place  and  never 
dare  to  come  back  again.  Let  old  Florian  lock 
the  gate.  Let  the  days  be  again  as  secure  as  of 
old,  when  there  was  no  fear  that  they  must  break 
off  their  lives  in  the  old  house  and  have  to  con- 
tinue elsewhere. 

In  the  green  room  an  agent  knocked  at  the 
wall  and  laughed. 

"Strong  as  a  fortress.  The  pickaxe  will  have 
hard  work  with  these  old  bricks." 

Anne  could  listen  no  more.  She  moved  her- 
self to  the  furthest  room  and  hid  so  that  Thomas 
might  not  look  into  her  eyes.  Why  destroy  her 
husband's  bliss?  He  was  so  contented  and 

261 


262  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

grateful.  He  worked,  planned,  discussed,  bar- 
gained. At  the  auction  Ilk"  had,  fallen  to  him 
and  his  eyes  glistened  marvellously  when  he 
spoke  of  it.  "Soon  our  house  at  home  will  be 
ready,  and  the  farm  too.  Everything  in  its  old 
place,  the  furniture,  the  pictures,  the  servants, 
the  bailiff,  the  agent,  even  the  old  housekeeper. 
The  crops  are  promising.  .  .  .  Are  you  pleased, 
Anne?  You  rejoice  with  me,  don't  you?  The 
earth  will  produce  for  us." 

Feverishly,  disorderly  haste  spoke  in  his  voice, 
in  his  actions.  Anne  was  tired  and  slow ;  it  took 
her  a  long  time  to  go  from  one  room  to  another ; 
there  was  so  much  to  be  looked  at  on  her 
way.  .  .  . 

Thomas  prepared  for  re-union  and  counted 
the  days  impatiently;  Anne  took  leave  and  woke 
every  morning  with  fear. 

"Nothing  has  happened  yet."  She  looked 
round,  and,  being  alone,  she  repeated  it  aloud 
so  that  the  walls  might  hear  it.  ...  Then  again 
she  was  frightened.  "Perhaps  to-day  .  .  .  to- 
night. .  .  ." 

Then  the  day  came. 

A  stranger  walked  with  Thomas  in  the  back 
garden.  He  trod  on  the  flower  beds  and  turned 
his  head  several  times  towards  the  house.  Anne 
saw  his  owl-like  face  from  the  staircase  window, 
watched  his  movements  anxiously.  He  too  bar- 
gained and  depreciated  everything.  She  began 
to  hope:  perhaps  he  would  go  away  like  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  263 

others,  life  would  remain  in  its  old  groove  and  the 
day  which  was  to  be  the  last  day  of  all  would 
never  come. 

The  owl-like  face  began  to  ascend  under  the 
vaults  of  the  staircase  and  smiled.  It  looked 
into  the  sunshine  room.  Vainly  Anne  fled  from 
it ;  she  met  it  again  in  the  green  room. 

The  stranger,  feeling  quite  at  home,  leaned 
now  against  the  writing  table  with  the  many 
drawers  and  said  something  to  Thomas. 

Anne  did  not  understand  clearly  what  was 
said,  but  she  felt  as  if  a  sharp,  short  blow  had 
struck  her  brow.  Her  brain  was  stunned  by  it. 
Thomas's  voice  too  reached  her  ear  confusedly, 
but  she  saw  with  despairing  certitude  that  his 
countenance  brightened. 

When  an  hour  later  the  banker  from  Pater- 
noster Street  left,  the  old  house  was  already  his. 

For  days  the  dull  pain  behind  Anne's  brow 
did  not  cease.  Everything  that  happened 
around  her  seemed  unreal :  the  sudden  departure 
of  the  people  from  the  ground  floor,  the  packing 
up  of  everything  all  over  the  house. 

The  time  for  delivery  was  short.  The  greatest 
haste  was  necessary. 

The  old  pieces  of  furniture  moved  from  their 
places,  as  clumsily,  painfully,  as  old  people  move 
from  their  accustomed  corners.  Below,  in  front 
of  the  house,  rattling  furniture  vans  stopped 
now  and  then. 

Anne  looked  out  of  the  window.     Barefooted, 


264  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

sweating  men  carried  the  piano  out  of  the  door. 
The  pampered  household  gods  stood  piled  up 
in  a  heap  in  the  middle  of  the  pavement,  amidst 
the  crowd  of  the  street.  A  man  sat  on  the  music 
chest.  Christopher's  old  desk  lay  upside  down 
on  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers,  just  like  a  dead 
animal,  its  four  legs  up  in  the  air. 

In  these  days,  Thomas  travelled  repeatedly 
from  home,  for  he  wanted  himself  to  supervise 
the  placing  of  the  furniture  of  the  old  house  in 
the  manor  house  of  Ille. 

The  boys  were  made  noisy  by  their  expecta- 
tion of  new  and  unknown  things.  They  spoke 
of  Ille  as  if  it  were  the  realization  of  a  fairy  tale 
—  a  fairy  tale  told  by  their  father. 

"They  don't  cling  to  the  old  house,"  thought 
Anne  and  felt  lonely.  She  liked  best  to  be  by 
herself.  Then  her  imagination  restored  every- 
thing to  its  old  place  in  the  dismantled  rooms. 
The  shapes  of  the  furniture  were  visible  on  the 
wall  papers.  The  forsaken  nails  stretched  out 
of  the  walls  like  fingers  asking  for  something. 
In  the  place  of  Mrs.  Christina's  portrait  a  weary 
shadow  looked  like  a  faded  memory. 

Another  piece  of  furniture  disappeared,  then 
another.  .  .  .  The  writing-table  with  many 
drawers  remained  alone  in  the  green  room. 
Anne  drew  the  drawers  out  one  by  one.  One 
contained  some  embroideries  made  in  cross-stitch. 
How  ugly  and  sweet  thev  were!  She  remem- 
bered them  well,  she  had  made  them  for  her 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  265 

grandfather.  Then  some  clumsy  old  drawings 
came  into  her  hands,  quaint  castles,  girls,  big- 
eared  cats;  two  silvery,  fair  curls,  in  a  paper, 
tied  together;  beneath  them  an  old  distant  date 
in  her  grandfather's  faded  writing. 

Whenever  the  clock  struck  she  started  and 
touched  her  forehead  as  if  it  had  struck  her  to 
hurry  her  on. 

In  another  drawer  she  found  a  diploma  of 
the  Freedom  of  the  Royal  Free  City  of  Pest  and 
a  worn  little  book.  On  its  cover  a  two-headed 
eagle  held  the  arms  of  Hungary  between  its 
claws. 

.  .  .  Pozsony.  A.  D.  1797,  Christopher  Ul- 
wing  .  .  .  civil  carpenter.  .  .  . 

While  she  turned  the  pages  a  faint,  mouldy 
odour  fanned  her  face.  Her  memory  searched 
hesitatingly : 

"  Two  prentice  lads  once  wandered 
To  strange  lands  far  away." 

Suddenly  the  torpor  of  her  brain  was  dis- 
pelled. Reality  assumed  its  merciless  shape  in 
her  conscience.  She  had  to  leave  here,  every- 
thing would  be  different.  .  .  .  Unchecked  tears 
flowed  down  her  cheeks. 

She  had  no  courage  to  pack  the  contents  of 
the  drawers,  nor  the  heart  to  have  the  open 
boxes  nailed  down.  Anything  that  seemed  final 
filled  her  with  horror. 


266  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

Somewhere  a  door  creaked.  Anne  woke  to 
her  helplessness.  She  pretended  to  hurry  and 
strained  her  efforts  to  hide  her  feelings  before 
those  she  loved. 

The  boys  were  preparing  for  their  examina- 
tions. Thomas  noticed  nothing.  In  the  ego- 
tism of  his  own  happiness  he  passed  blindly  be- 
side Anne's  shy,  wordless  pain.  He  was  pleased 
with  everything,  only  his  wife's  apathy  irked 
him. 

A  half -opened  drawer,  an  empty  cupboard, 
could  stop  Anne  for  hours.  In  her  poor  tor- 
tured brain  memories  alone  had  room.  Every- 
thing spoke  of  the  past.  Even  in  the  attics 
she  only  met  with  memories. 

Uncle  Sebastian's  shaky  winged  armchair; 
the  grimy  engravings  of  Fischer  von  Erlach  and 
Mansard;  the  out  of  date  coloured  map  of  Pest- 
Buda.  .  .  .  She  took  the  map  to  the  light  of  the 
attic  window.  For  a  long  time  she  contemplated 
the  lines  of  the  short  crooked  streets,  the  Danube 
painted  blue,  the  small  vessels  of  the  boat-bridge, 
the  small  churches,  the  many  empty  building 
plots. 

She  could  not  find  her  way  on  the  map.  Over 
her  childhood's  memories  a  new  big  city  had 
risen,  had  swallowed  in  its  growth  the  old  streets, 
removed  the  markets,  spread  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  tattered  map,  spread  even  beyond  the  cold, 
confident  dreams  of  Ulwing  the  builder. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  267 

Wearily  Anne  went  down  the  stairs  and  even- 
ing found  her  again  immobile  in  front  of  an  open 
cupboard.  She  sat  on  the  ground  and  on  her 
knee  lay  an  old  shrunken  cigar  case,  embroidered 
with  beads.  .  .  . 

Steps  approached  from  the  adjoining  room. 
She  became  attentive  and  really  wanted  to  be 
quick,  but  forgot  that  she  was  engaged  in  filling 
an  empty  box  and  with  rapid  movements  she  in- 
stinctively returned  everything  to  its  usual  place 
in  the  cupboard. 

Thomas  stopped  near  her. 

"What  do  you  think,  how  much  more  time  do 
you  require?" 

"There  is  still  much  to  be  done,"  answered 
Anne  guardedly.  What  it  was  she  could  not 
have  told. 

"In  a  week  the  house  has  to  be  handed  over," 
muttered  her  husband  nervously. 

Anne  looked  up  at  him. 

The  lamplight  lit  up  Thomas's  face.  How 
old  and  worn  out  he  looked!  His  well-shaped 
mouth  seemed  pitifully  dry  and  between  his 
cheek  bones  the  sunken  crevices  were  darkened 
with  purplish-blue  shadows. 

Anne  thought  her  eyes  deluded  her  and  got 
up. 

Thomas  snatched  at  his  chest  and  again  made 
the  ominous  movement  with  his  hand.  Anne 
could  no  longer  believe  that  it  was  accidental. 


268  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

As  if  to  escape  her  maddening  anxiety  she  flung 
herself  into  his  arms  and  pressed  her  head  to  his 
chest. 

Thomas  stood  motionless  as  if  he  had  lost 
consciousness.  He  breathed  heavily  and  stared 
anxiously  into  space  above  his  wife's  head.  His 
heart  beat  faintly  a  rapid  course,  stumbled  sud- 
denly, and  for  an  instant  there  was  an  awful, 
cold  silence  in  his  chest. 

Anne  listened  with  bated  breath.  Under  her 
head,  the  rapid  irregular  gallop  started  again. 

As  if  he  had  only  then  noticed  his  wife's  prox- 
imity, Thomas  stretched  himself  out  and  pushed 
her  away  impatiently.  Anne  remembered  that 
this  was  not  the  first  time  this  had  happened. 
The  awful  truth  dawned  on  her. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said  and  made  an  effort  to 
laugh,  but  his  laughter  died  away  under  Anne's 
pitiful  look. 

"Thomas,  since  when?" 

"A  long  time  ago." 

"For  God's  sake,  why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

"I  thought  it  would  pass  away  at  Ille.  .  .  . 
Open  the  window.  It  is  rather  worse  to- 
day. .  .  ."  His  face  became  ashen-grey,  his 
eyes  appealed  for  help.  With  a  single  gesture 
he  tore  his  shirt-collar  open. 

Anne  flew  through  the  room. 

"Call  the  doctor!     The  doctor.  .  .  ." 

It  sounded  all  through  the  house  when  Florian 
slammed  the  street  door. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  269 

Hours  came  and  passed  and  left  their  marks 
on  the  faces  of  the  people  in  the  old  house. 
Thomas  was  already  in  bed.  On  the  vaulted 
staircase  Anne  talked  for  a  long  time  with  Dr. 
Gardos,  the  son  of  the  old  proto-medicus. 

The  doctor's  voice  was  strangled;  his  words 
scarcely  reached  Anne  and  yet  they  annihilated 
everything  around  her.  Had  she  not  yet  lost 
enough?  Was  there  no  mercy  for  her? 

Dr.  Gardos  looked  at  her  full  of  pity. 

"Miracles  might  happen.  .  .  ." 

The  corners  of  Anne's  eyes  drew  up  slowly 
and  horror  was  in  her  expression.  She  shivered 
and  then  went  back  through  the  corridor  with 
strained,  stiff  lips.  When  Thomas  as  in  a 
dream  reached  for  her  hand,  she  bent  over  him 
with  her  wan,  crushed  smile. 

Dawn  was  slow  to  come  and  it  was  a  long 
time  before  evening  fell  again.  Nothing  altered 
in  the  house,  only  the  day  opened  and  closed 
its  eyes. 

Thomas  lay  motionless  in  his  bed.  Anne 
watched  his  every  breath  anxiously,  thought  of 
the  passing  hours  and  of  the  day  that  drew 
threateningly  nearer,  on  which  the  house  was  to 
be  surrendered. 

She  asked  for  delay.  It  was  refused.  She 
had  to  accept  the  advice  of  young  Doctor  Gardos. 

The  empty  little  lodgings  in  the  house  oppo- 
site .  .  .  there  was  no  choice,  they  must  move 
there.  They  would  have  to  rough  it,  there 


270  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

would  be  room  enough  for  a  few  days.  For  the 
doctor  had  told  her,  quite  calmly,  that  it  was  only 
a  matter  of  a  few  days. 

"So  there  are  still  miracles,"  thought  Anne. 
"Yes,  it  is  only  for  a  short  time  and  then  .  .  . 
everything  will  come  right  again."  She  felt  re- 
lieved and  thus  the  last  day  in  the  old  house 
passed  away. 

It  was  evening.  The  two  boys  had  already 
gone  with  Tini  into  the  lodgings  opposite. 
Thomas  slept.  Anne  and  the  old  servant  sat  up 
with  him;  they  did  not  dare  to  look  at  each  other. 

The  windows  were  open;  in  the  corridor,  near 
the  wall,  the  marble  clock  ticked,  on  the  floor. 
The  last  thing  left  in  the  old  house.  Florian 
insisted  on  carrying  it  over  himself  into  the  new 
lodgings. 

Anne  counted  the  strokes  of  the  clock.  "In 
three  hours  ...  in  two  hours.  ..."  She  rose 
quietly,  slid  along  the  corridor,  down  the  stairs. 
In  the  back  garden,  between  the  high,  ugly  walls, 
the  old  chestnut  tree,  the  winged  pump,  the 
bushes  were  all  still  in  their  places  .  .  .  and  one 
could  rest  on  the  circular  seat  of  the  apple  tree. 
Everything  was  as  of  old,  even  the  ticking  of 
the  old  clock  came  down  into  the  garden. 

Anne  leaned  her  head  against  the  trunk  of  the 
tree;  without  taking  her  eyes  off  Thomas's  win- 
dow, she  took  leave  of  all  things  around  her. 

Suddenly,  as  if  somebody's  speech  had  broken 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  271 

off  in  the  act  of  saying  farewell,  the  silence  be- 
came absolute.  The  clock  had  stopped. 

Anne  ran  up  the  stairs.  Now  she  remem- 
bered. Last  night  she  had  forgotten  the  clock 
and  now  the  butterfly  pendulum,  which  she  had 
seen  alive,  lay  dead  between  the  marble  pillars. 
She  passed  her  hand  wearily  over  her  brow.  So 
the  little  dwarf  had  gone  too!  Had  Time  itself 
forsaken  the  old  house? 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  green  room.  The 
candle  light  floated  round  her  up  and  down. 
Her  steps  echoed  sharply  from  the  empty  walls. 
She  stopped  in  front  of  the  tall  white  doors  with 
the  glass  panes.  On  the  panel  rising  notches 
were  visible.  When  they  were  children,  Chris- 
topher and  she,  their  father  had  marked  their 
growth  every  year.  She  went  further,  trying 
the  door-handles  carefully.  Some  were  meek 
and  obedient,  others  creaked  and  resisted.  She 
knew  them  .  .  .  they  had  had  their  say  in  her 
life.  She  knew  the  voice  of  everything  in  the 
house.  The  windows  spoke  to  her  when  th^y 
were  opened ;  the  board  of  the  threshold  too  had 
something  to  say  beneath  her  tread,  always  the 
same  thing,  ever  since  she  could  remember.  But 
that  was  part  of  its  destiny. 

She  slipped  along  the  walls.  She  passed  her 
hand  over  the  faded  wallpaper,  over  the  grey 
stove,  even  over  the  window  sills.  She  put  the 
candle  down  and  looked  through  the  small  panes 


272  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

of  glass  towards  the  Danube,  just  like  old  times. 
But  the  fronts  of  the  houses  opposite  repelled 
her  looks. 

A  carriage  rattled  through  the  street:  it 
sounded  like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  Anne  clung 
close  to  the  walls  and  under  the  harmonizing  in- 
fluence of  the  quiet  night,  the  intimate  physical 
contact  brought  something  suddenly  home  to  her 
that  had  lived  in  her  unconscious  self  dimly  un 
expressed,  for  the  whole  of  her  existence.  In 
that  moment  she  understood  the  bond  that  ex- 
isted between  her  and  the  doomed  old  house. 
The  bricks  under  the  whitewash,  the  beams,  the 
arches,  all  were  creations  of  one  single  force  and 
she  felt  herself  one  with  them  as  if  she  had  grown 
from  between  the  walls,  as  if  she  were  just  a 
chip  of  them,  a  chip  privileged  to  move  and  say 
aloud  what  they  had  to  suffer  in  silence. 

She  thought  of  the  finished  lives,  continued 
in  her  who  had  survived  everybody.  Mysterious 
memories  of  events  she  had  never  witnessed  in- 
vaded her  mind.  Grafts  from  memories  treas- 
ured up  by  the  house  of  the  Ulwings. 

Since  the  clock  had  stopped,  time  ceased  to 
exist  for  Anne.  A  painful  trembling  of  her  own 
body  brought  her  back  to  reality.  The  whole 
house  trembled.  The  bell  rang  in  the  hall. 

Blood  rushed  to  Anne's  benumbed  heart. 
Her  knees  gave  way  as  she  returned  through  the 
rooms.  One  after  another  she  closed  the  doors 
behind  her,  looking  back  all  the  time.  Near  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  273 

door  of  the  nursery  a  folded  piece  of  paper  lay 
on  the  floor.  She  picked  it  up  and  pressed  it 
carefully  between  the  glazed  wings,  as  she  used 
to  do,  so  that  they  might  not  rattle  when  car- 
riages passed  below. 

She  only  realized  what  she  had  done  when  the 
door-handle  dropped  back  to  its  place,  when  the 
door  was  closed,  the  door  whose  rattling  would 
wake  no  one  any  more.  Anne  sobbed  aloud 
among  the  empty  walls.  The  rooms  repeated 
her  sob,  one  after  the  other,  gently,  more  and 
more  gently.  .  .  . 

The  street  door  opened  below.  Dr.  Gardos' 
commanding  voice  was  audible  on  the  staircase. 
Two  men  followed  him,  carrying  a  stretcher  on 
their  shoulders.  Anne  came  face  to  face  with 
them  in  the  corridor.  She  swayed,  as  if  she  had 
been  hit  on  the  chest,  then  she  seemed  quite  com- 
posed again.  She  opened  the  door  and  gently 
wakened  her  husband. 

The  stretcher,  with  Thomas  on  it,  floated 
across  the  road  in  the  early  dawn  as  over  a  nar- 
row blue  river.  One  shore,  the  habitual  one, 
was  the  old  house,  the  other,  the  strange  dark 
house,  the  strange  new  life  in  which  Anne  felt 
she  had  no  root. 

She  passed  the  gate  quickly,  with  her  head 
bent.  Only  in  the  middle  of  the  road  did  she 
stop  and  hesitate.  She  turned  back  suddenly. 

The  two  pillar-men  leaned  out  under  the  urns 
of  the  cornice.  Their  stone  eyes  turned  to  her, 


274  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

as  if  they  stared  straight  at  her  accusingly  and 

asked  a  question  to  which  tljjere  was  no  answer. 

Florian  turned  the  big  old  key  slowly  in  the 

door.    For  the  last  time,  the  very  last  time.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  new  inhabitants  of  the  strange,  small 
lodgings  found  everything  hostile  and 
bleak  in  their  new  surroundings. 

An  open  gas  flame  whistled  in  the 
narrow  anteroom.  The  neglected  doors  were 
shabby  and  the  dark  rooms  only  remembered 
people  who  had  not  cared  for  them  and  were  for 
ever  moving  on. 

The  first  week  passed  by.  Anne  did  not  leave 
Thomas's  bedside  and  still  dreaded  going  to  the 
window.  All  this  time  her  soul  lead  a  double 
life :  one  for  Thomas,  one  for  the  house. 

After  a  sleepless  night  she  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  She  stole  gently  to  the  window  and 
bent  hesitatingly,  fearfully,  forward. 

She  felt  relieved.  In  the  grey  morning  the  old 
house  still  stood  intact.  .  .  .  She  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  its  yellow  walls  stood  further  out 
than  the  other  houses  and  that  they  obstructed 
the  road.  She  was  shocked  to  realize  how  old 
and  big  it  was.  Its  steep,  old-fashioned  roof 
cast  a  deep  shadow  out  of  which  the  windows 
stared  at  her  with  the  pitiful  gaze  of  the  blind. 

While  she  looked  at  them  one  by  one,  she  never 
ceased  listening  to  her  patient.  Suddenly  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Thomas's  breath  had  become 

275 


276  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

weaker.  She  glided  back  trembling.  Hence- 
forth this  became  Anne's  on'y  road.  It  was  a 
short  road  but  it  embraced  Anne's  whole  life. 

One  morning  a  queer  noise  roused  her  from 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  There  was  silence  in 
the  room,  the  noise  came  from  the  street.  She 
rose  from  the  armchair  in  which  she  spent  the 
nights  and  went  on  tiptoe  to  the  window. 

Workmen  stood  in  front  of  the  old  house. 
Some  men  rolled  tarred  poles  from  a  cart.  The 
front  door  was  open  as  if  gaping  for  an  awful 
shriek  of  agony.  A  gap  had  formed  between  the 
tiles  of  the  attics  and  men  walked  upon  the  roof. 

Anne  covered  her  eyes.  Had  she  to  live 
through  this?  She  could  not  run  away.  She 
would  have  to  see  it  all.  ... 

Thomas  started  up  from  a  restless  dream. 

"What  is  it?     What  is  happening?" 

There  was  no  word  which  could  express  what 
happened  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
or  if  there  was  one,  Anne  could  not  find  it. 
Without  a  word,  she  went  back  to  the  bed  and 
drew  her  old  sweet  smile,  like  a  veil,  over  her 
face.  She  was  overwrought,  she  drew  the  veil 
too  hard  .  .  .  and  it  broke  and  covered  her  no 
more. 

Thomas  reached  for  her  hand.  In  that  in- 
stant he  realised  the  immensity  of  Anne's  sacri- 
fice. Till  now  he  had  faith  in  himself  and  be- 
lieved he  could  attract  his  wife's  soul  to  what  he 
loved.  Illness  had  wrung  this  hope  from  him 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  277 

and  he  felt  ashamed,  his  pride  suffered,  that  he 
should  have  been  the  cause  of  Anne's  sudden 
sacrifice. 

His  dying  eyes  looked  at  her  earnestly,  with 
boundless  love.  Anne  s  back  was  turned  to  the 
light  and  while  Thomas  stroked  her  hand  she 
spoke  of  Ille.  She  planned.  .  .  . 

Next  day  the  post  brought  a  little  bag.  It 
contained  wheat  .  .  .  golden  wheat  from  Ille. 
Thomas  passed  it  slowly,  pensively,  between  his 
fingers  and  while  the  source  of  life  flowed  in 
poignant  contrast  between  his  ghostly,  lean 
hands,  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 

In  these  moments,  in  these  days,  under  the 
cover  of  the  worn  torn  smile  Anne's  face  be- 
came old. 

Out  there,  the  roof  of  the  old  house  was  al- 
ready gone  and  hemmed  in  between  scaffoldings ; 
like  a  poor  old  prisoner,  the  yellow  front  was 
waiting  for  its  fate.  To  Anne's  imagining  the 
house  complained  behind  its  wooden  cage  and 
knew  that  it  had  been  so  surrounded  only  to  be 
killed. 

The  pickaxes  set  to  work.  The  bricks  slid 
shrieking  down  a  slide  from  the  first  floor. 
Labourers,  Slovak  girls,  came  and  went  on  the 
scaffolding  and  they  too  carried  bricks  on  hods. 

Every  passing  day  saw  the  house  grow  smaller. 
The  labourers  tore  holes  in  the  walls  and  left  the 
rest  to  crumble  down.  That  was  the  quickest 
way. 


278  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

The  dull  noise  went  to  the  marrow,  and  with 
every  wall  something  fell  to.  pieces  in  Anne's 
heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  became  feebler 
after  every  crash,  that  the  efforts  of  generations 
collapsed  in  her  soul,  great  old  efforts,  with 
which  the  first  Ulwings,  the  ancient  unknown 
ones,  had  all  carried  bricks  for  the  builder — 
bricks  for  the  house. 

She  thought  of  her  father.  He  kept  the  walls 
standing.  And  of  Christopher — he  began  to 
pull  the  building  down.  And  now  the  end  had 
come. 

The  crevice  grew  alarmingly  in  the  yellow 
wall.  By  and  by  the  whole  front  became  one 
crevice.  One  could  look  into  the  rooms.  From 
the  street  people  stared  in  and  this  affected  Anne 
as  if  impertinent,  inquisitive  strangers  spied  into 
the  past  of  her  private  life. 

Here  and  there  the  green  wallpaper  clung 
tenaciously  to  the  ruins.  A  round  black  hole 
glared  in  a  corner  from  which  the  stove  pipes 
had  been  torn  remorselessly :  the  tunnel  of  Chris- 
topher's stove-fairies.  In  some  places  the  torn 
up  floor  boards  hung  in  the  air  and  the  dark 
passages  of  the  demolished  chimneys  looked  as 
if  a  sooty  giant  finger  had  been  drawn  along 
the  wall. 

On  the  further  side,  the  row  of  semi-circular 
windows  in  the  corridor  became  visible.  The 
trees  of  the  back  garden  stretched  their  heads 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  279 

and  looked  out  into  the  street.  Then  one  day 
they  stood  there  no  longer.  When  the  heavy 
waggon  drove  jerkily  with  them  through  the 
gaping  door,  Anne  recognized  each,  one  by  one. 
On  the  top  lay  a  crippled  trunk  and  the  boards 
of  the  cracked,  round  seat  spread  from  it  in 
splinters. 

Everything  went  quickly  now;  even  the  two 
pillar-men  lay  on  their  backs  on  the  pavement 
of  the  street.  When  evening  came  and  the 
labourers  had  gone,  Anne  snatched  a  shawl  and 
ran  down  the  stairs.  She  wanted  to  take  leave 
of  the  pillar-men.  She  bent  down  and  looked 
into  their  faces.  The  light  of  the  street  lamp 
which  used  to  shine  into  the  green  room,  lit  up 
the  two  stone  figures.  They  looked  as  if  they 
had  died. 

Steps  approached  from  the  street  corner. 
Anne  withdrew  into  the  former  entrance.  Two 
men  came  down  the  street.  The  elder  stopped; 
his  voice  sounded  clear: 

"Once  this  was  the  house  of  Ulwing  the 
builder." 

The  younger,  indifferent,  stepped  over  the 
head  of  one  of  the  stone  figures. 

"Ulwing  the  builder?"  Suddenly  he  looked 
interestedly  at  the  mutilated  walls. 

"Ulwing?  .  .  .  any  relation  of  the  clockmaker 
of  Buda?" 

"His  brother." 


280  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"I  never  heard  that  he  had  any  family,"  mur- 
mured the  younger,  continuing  his  way,  "Sebas- 
tian Ulwing  did  great  things  for  our  country." 

Anne  looked  after  them.  Was  this  all  that 
remained  of  the  Ulwing  name?  Was  the  mem- 
ory of  his  work  already  gone  ?  The  heroic  death 
of  Uncle  Sebastian,  a  doubtful  legend,  was  that 
all  that  was  remembered? 

Men  came  again.  Carriages,  life,  the  noise  of 
the  town. 

Anne  went  back,  across  the  road,  towards  the 
strange  house. 

That  night  Thomas  became  very  restless.  He 
tossed  from  one  side  to  the  other  and  asked 
several  times  if  Anne  was  there.  He  did  not  see 
her,  though  she  sat  at  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
held  his  hand  in  hers.  She  held  her  head  quite 
bravely,  there  was  not  a  tear  in  her  eyes.  She 
did  not  want  Thomas  to  read  his  death  sentence 
from  her  face. 

In  the  morning  Anne  felt  her  hand  tenderly 
pressed. 

"Are  you  here?"  asked  the  pallid,  dying  man. 
"All  the  time  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  be  here." 

In  a  few  moments  Thomas's  features  altered 
amazingly.  A  shadow  fell  over  them  and  Anne 
looked  round  vainly  to  find  out  whence  it  came. 
Yet  it  was  there  and  became  darker  and  darker 
in  the  hollow  of  his  eyes,  round  his  mouth. 

"I  am  going  now,"  said  Thomas,  "don't  shake 
your  head.  I  know.  ..." 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  281 

She  could  not  answer  nor  could  she  restrain 
her  tears  any  longer. 

"Weep,  Anne,  it  will  do  you  good  and  forgive 
me  if  you  can.  I  did  not  understand  you,  that 
is  what  made  your  life  so  heavy  at  my  side." 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  remained  a  long  time  with- 
out moving;  only  his  face  was  now  and  again 
convulsed  as  if  something  sobbed  within  him. 
Then  he  drew  Anne's  head  to  his  heart. 

"Here  .  .  .  close,  quite  close.  .  .  .  This 
was  yours,  yours  alone.  .  .  .  Anne.  .  .  . 
Anne.  .  .  ."  repeated  his  voice  further  and 
further  away,  "Anne.  ..." 

That  was  the  last  word,  as  if  of  all  the  words 
of  life  it  were  the  only  one  he  wanted  to  take 
with  him  on  the  long,  lone  road. 

Before  night  came  Thomas  Illey  was  no  more. 

That  night  Anne  kept  vigil  between  two  dead. 
Her  husband  .  .  .  and  the  old  house. 

When  day  broke  somebody  came  into  the  room 
and  flung  his  arms  around  her.  Her  son. 
Thomas's  son. 

Leaning  on  his  arm  Anne  left  the  strange 
house  behind  Thomas's  coffin.  And  the  younger 
boy,  fair  and  blue-eyed  held  her  hand  close  and 
clung  to  her. 

Thomas  was  borne  away.  It  was  his  wish  to 
be  buried  in  Ille.  Anne  and  the  two  boys  went 
in  a  carriage  through  the  town  to  the  station. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  night.  The  gas  lamps 
were  already  alight.  Here  and  there  electric 


282  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

globes  hung  like  glowing  silver-blue  drops  from 
their  wires.  Illuminated  shops,  show  windows, 
large  coffee  houses  with  glaring  windows.  Ser- 
vites'  Place,  Grenadier's  Street  .  .  .  and  on 
what  had  once  been  the  Grassalkovich  corner  an 
electric  clock  marked  the  time. 

The  carriage  turned  a  corner,  the  pavements 
on  both  sides  swarmed  with  pushing  crowds. 
'Buses,  carriages,  the  hum  of  voices,  glaring 
posters,  people.  Many  people,  everywhere. 

Further  on  there  was  a  block  in  the  traffic. 
The  scaffoldings  of  new-built  houses  encroached 
on  the  pavement.  Damp  smell  of  lime  mixed 
with  the  summer's  dust.  Under  the  scaffoldings 
hurrying  figures  with  drawn-up  shoulders.  Sud- 
den shouts.  A  jet  of  water  sprayed  the  hot 
pavement  in  a  broad  sheaf. 

A  mounted  policeman  lifted  his  white-gloved 
hand.  For  an  instant  everything  stopped,  then 
the  crowd  became  untangled  and  rolled  on  like 
a  stream. 

Anne's  eyes  passed  vaguely  over  the  signs  of 
the  shops.  She  found  no  familiar  name.  The 
Jorgs,  Miinster,  Walter,  were  nowhere.  Other 
names,  other  people.  And  the  Ulwings? 

A  forgotten  corner  lamp,  an  old  tree  surviving 
in  the  row  of  young  trees  bordering  the  streets, 
a  condemned,  quaint  old  house,  uncouthly  timid 
among  the  powerful  new  buildings  .  .  .  these 
might  possibly  know  something  of  Ulwing  the 
builder  but  men  knew  him  no  more. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  283 

The  carriage  reached  its  destination.  It 
stopped  at  the  railway  station. 

In  the  smoky  hall  Florian  and  Mamsell  Tini 
sat  on  the  luggage.  Somewhere  a  bell  was  rung 
and  a  voice  proclaimed  the  names  of  unknown 
places  that  people  went  to  ...  lived  in. 

Anne,  standing  on  the  platform,  saw  a  dark 
van  coupled  to  the  train.  They  had  to  wait  a 
long  time  .  .  .  the  train  started  late.  People 
came  hurrying.  Only  he  who  travelled  in  the 
black  van  to  Ille  was  in  no  hurry. 

The  furious  bell  sounded  again. 

Anne  leaned  out  of  her  carriage  door  though 
she  wanted  to  see  no  more ;  all  was  over  for  her 
and  far,  far  away.  Her  tired  aimless  look  was 
suddenly  arrested. 

Someone  came  to  her,  came  to  her  out  of  the 
past  .  .  .  from  far  away. 

Adam  Walter  stopped  in  front  of  her  carriage 
and,  without  a  word,  uncovered  himself.  He 
stood  still  there  near  the  line  when  the  train  had 
gone.  He  looked  long,  long  after  the  trail  of 
smoke. 

The  long  dark  night  dissolved  into  dawn  and 
fields  and  trees.  .  .  . 

Now  and  then  little  sentry  huts  appeared  as 
if  something  white  had  been  flashed  beside  the 
rushing  windows  of  the  train.  The  barriers  at 
the  crossings  were  like  outstretched  arms.  Rac- 
ing telegraph  poles,  signal  wires  shining  like 
silver.  The  shrubs  rocked  in  the  wind  caused  by 


284  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

the  train  and  the  shadow  of  the  smoke  floated 
broad  over  the  sunlit  cornfields.,. 

Then  all  was  reversed.     The  train  stopped. 

People  had  been  waiting  for  a  long  time  at 
the  small  station  of  Ille.  Blue  spots,  bright 
peasants'  petticoats,  shining  white  chemisettes. 
All  the  round  holiday  hats  were  doffed  simul- 
taneously like  a  flock  of  black  birds. 

Bareheaded,  dumb,  the  people  of  Ille  stood 
before  the  wife  of  Thomas  Illey.  Hard  brown 
hands  offered  themselves  and  the  tearful  eyes 
looked  at  her  as  if  they  had  always  known 
her. 

"God  brought  you  back  home  to  us."  The 
deeply  furrowed  face  of  an  old  peasant  bent  over 
her  hand. 

Those  behind  gathered  round  the  boys.  One 
peasant  woman  stroked  George  Illey's  arm. 

"Oh  my  sweet  soul,  you  are  just  like  your 
father." 

Anne  looked  round  bewildered.  She  felt 
some  strange  new  emotion.  The  ground  she 
stood  on  was  the  ground  of  Ille,  the  trees  had 
grown  from  it,  the  people  too,  everything  was 
part  of  it,  her  sons,  Thomas's  memory.  .  .  . 

A  deep  rustic  voice  said : 

"Our  master  has  come  home." 

The  crowd  opened  a  way  for  the  metal  coffin, 
carried  by  four  stalwart  youths  to  a  cart.  They 
placed  it  on  a  pile  of  oak  boughs,  then  all  started 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  285 

behind  it.  At  the  cross  roads  the  cart  turned 
towards  the  chapel.  The  carriage  took  the  road 
through  the  row  of  poplars. 

Anne's  eyes  followed  the  cart.  The  wheels 
were  invisible  under  the  branches  hanging  down 
from  it.  Rich  green  life  carried  death.  The 
crown  of  the  oak  carried  Thomas  Illey  towards 
the  cemetery. 

The  bell  of  the  chapel  called  gently  to  heaven. 
The  churches  of  the  villages  responded  in  the  dis- 
tance. One  told  the  other  all  over  the  country, 
that  the  master  of  Ille  had  come  home. 

Along  both  sides  of  the  road  the  poplars  stood 
erect  like  a  guard  of  honour,  full  of  old  tradi- 
tions. The  carriage  turned  another  corner  and 
pebbles  flew  up  under  the  wheels.  There,  sur- 
rounded by  oaks,  stood  the  old  manor  house  of 
Ille,  and  in  the  cool  white-washed  hall  steps  re- 
sounded under  the  portraits  of  ancient  lords  of 
Ille. 

Anne  started  wearily,  then  suddenly  stopped, 
deeply  shocked.  As  though  the  house  had  been 
prepared  for  a  gay  festival  ...  it  was  all 
decked  with  flowers.  Her  eyes  were  hurt  by  the 
glare  of  the  bright  colours  and  her  pent-up  sor- 
row moaned  within  her.  She  pressed  her  hands 
to  her  bosom  .  .  .  the  flowers  pained  her. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?     Why?     Just  now?" 

The  old  housekeeper  left  the  row  of  women 
servants. 


286  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

"It  was  the  order  of  our  good  master.  It  was 
his  will  that  every  flower  should  be  picked  when 
our  mistress  came  home." 

In  Anne's  pale,  transparent  face  the  corners 
of  her  eyes  and  lips  rose  in  silent  pain.  It  was 
as  though  she  gazed  into  a  mysterious  abyss  of 
which  she  had  known  nothing  till  this  day.  Now 
she  saw  Thomas's  soul,  now  that  he  had  given  her 
every  flower  that  had  not  grown  on  someone 
else's  land.  He  was  dead  when  he  gave,  but  he 
gave.  .  .  . 

If  only  one  could  answer  those  who  are  gone; 
if  only  one  could  speak  when  speech  is  no  more 
possible.  .  .  . 

Anne  remained  alone  in  a  small  vaulted  room. 
Above  the  couch  of  many  flowers  hung  the  por- 
trait of  Mrs.  Christina.  The  piano,  the  small 
work-table  were  there  too,  and  everything  was  in 
the  same  position  as  it  had  been  in  the  sunshine 
room. 

She  leaned  her  brow  against  the  window  rail- 
ing and  from  among  her  old  household  gods 
looked  out  into  the  new  world.  A  verdant 
breath  of  the  large  garden  fanned  her  face.  The 
trees  whispered  strange  things  to  each  other. 

Anne  thought  of  the  swing-tree  and  her  gaze 
wandered  over  the  garden  as  if  in  search  of  it. 
Then  she  heard  something  call  to  her.  It  be- 
came clearer  and  clearer.  Beyond  the  trees, 
there  spoke  with  quiet  distant  murmur,  a  faith- 
ful old  voice:  the  Danube  .  .  .  the  fate  of  the 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  287 

Ulwings.  The  past  spoke.  This  was  all  that 
was  left  to  her ;  nothing  more.  .  .  . 

In  that  instant  the  tramp  of  strong  young 
steps  recalled  her  from  the  past.  Through  the 
glaring  summer  sunlight  her  two  sons  came 
down  the  gravelled  path. 

She  looked  at  them  and  her  head  rose. 


THE   END 


A     000034422     6 


